Getting To Know Me Through You
by Leoithne
Summary: AU. This is the story of how John and Sherlock meet in another time, another place. This is the story of how John, maybe, saves Sherlock and how Sherlock, maybe, saves John. This is the story of how the things for the two of them will be different and, yet, it will all be the same. Or not? As always, Johnlock.
1. Professor John H Watson

**AN: Good morning/afternoon/whatever time of day it is for you all!**

**I'm already back with another fanfiction. It seems I'm really inexhaustible in writing Sherlock's fanfictions lately (not that I'm complaining at all, actually). Anyway, I cut it short: this will be an AU story about, well, John and Sherlock. It will be all from John's POV (which, to be honest, was a real challenge, since I'm not used to have a single POV in my stories), but I hope it will be enjoyable nevertheless.**

**The usual reminder is: I'm not Brit and English is not my native language, so be kind and forgive me in advance (or point it out) if there are any HORRIBLE mistakes in what I'm writing.**

**Second 'warning': for the first part of the story (it will sort of change later on) they will be in university. I have almost zero knowledge about how an English university works, so I had to use my knowledge about Italian university (but even then it's not completely accurate), so, please, bear up with me if there are things that really don't sound right. Just take it as a very AU part (it won't harm the story later, I promise).**

**And, as always, comments and reviews are warmly welcomed and throughout appreciated.**

**All the rights to BBC, all the 'fun' to me.**

* * *

_Professor John H. Watson._

John Watson read the name on the envelope one more time, smiling and frowning at the same time. A completely new experience for him. Professor Watson. That sounded overly weird in his ears, but he guessed he would eventually get used to it. Just not in that particular moment. In that particular moment the name "professor" sounded just weird. That was all. He placed the envelope in the outer pocket of his tatty brown leather briefcase, a relic of his old days as a student (not that old, actually, but it looked like centuries to him) and looked up to the sky.

It was a very gloomy London morning. The sky was totally covered by grey clouds, which seemed to wrap the city in an uncomfortable and cosy atmosphere nevertheless. Everything around him was grey. Grey was the paving of the road. Grey was the surface of the pond. Grey was the shape of the trees in the dim cold grey light of the day. Grey were the cars passing by the busy road. Grey were the buildings surrounding the park. Grey was his jacket, grey his trousers. Grey his state of mind. Everything so permeated with greyness that even the fiery red and yellow of the first autumn leaves had become a pale shadow.

The air was chilly. A cold, brisk wind made the same leaves twirling as they fell from the branches. It was bloody freezing for a mid-September morning. John Watson huffed, annoyed, and the cloud of hot vapour from his mouth immediately condensed in front of his eyes adding some other grey to the never-ending greyness.

From his park bench, where he had been sitting for the last thirty minutes, John could also clearly hear the ceaseless noise of the cars in the streets surrounding that corner of peace. It was a noise so constant, so perpetual that he should've been used to it. Nevertheless, after three years in Afghanistan, nothing in London, not even that noise, was familiar anymore.

An icy raindrop hit his nose all of a sudden. Three swans spread their wings and flew away from the pond, seeking refuge in the bushes nearby. Other raindrops followed the first, hitting John's hands, his hair, his face. They were as icy as the wind, as grey as the sky. He glanced at the watch. Seven thirty a.m. His first lesson started at ten, he knew that, but he had woken up at five, nervous. And he hadn't managed to go back to sleep. So he had gone out at six thirty and roamed around the city for a while before stopping on that bench. He was starting to feel cold and thus rubbed his palms against each other. After the tenth raindrop hit his neck, he decided that it was time to open his umbrella and finally move to the university.

He skimmed through his briefcase and took out his umbrella. He couldn't even remember for how much time he had got it. It was faded, a bit rugged, dirty and…grey. Like everything else around. Like him. Professor John Watson sighed and stood up, opened the umbrella and started to walk.

As soon as he did it, the raindrops transformed in proper rain, a falling cascade of water down on his umbrella, washing his mind away. The rain hit the pond's surface, rippling it. Some ducks dived underwater as they were trying to escape the cold shower by bathing in the warmer water of the pond. For it had to be warmer, John thought. Artificial ponds like that had always rather warm water at the end of the summer, as they preserved the memory of August's hot days in them; differently from the water pouring down from the sky, already an anticipation of a more than likely very cold autumn.

Three steps later a man overtook him, running as he was being chased by someone. Seconds later a tall, lean young man stumbled on him. He lost the grip of his umbrella, which fell on the road. But the young man didn't stop. John clearly heard him mutter a curse while he kept on running, as if he was really chasing the other man who had previously passed him. John turned to him as he picked up his umbrella and yelled, raising his fist in the air:

"At least you could have uttered an apology, vandal!"

But the young man didn't even bother to turn back.

John grunted and was starting to walk again, when another man run by him.

"Accept my apologies in his stead.", panted he, while keeping on running.

John Watson stared at the three figures fading in the distance, astonished. He didn't even notice that he wasn't holding his umbrella over his head, so that the rain was showering him from head to feet. He blinked twice, trying to understand what had just happened. He failed miserably. He had just to accept London's weirdness, he guessed.

Twenty minutes later he arrived at the university, still soaking wet due to the accidental rain shower. As he entered the room, where some other professors were sitting, he attracted everyone's attention. All eyes were fixed him as if he was some strange creature. Most of them had already met him before, but he guessed that a dry professor John Watson looked slightly better than the John Watson he was right in that moment. Even if he couldn't see his own face, he had the sensation he looked more like a beggar than a proper chemistry teacher. Then someone broke the embarrassing silence.

"Welcome, professor Watson.", the soft voice of a woman said behind his back.

He had already met her too. Miss Laura Collins, inorganic chemistry professor. She smiled.

"I think you've just had some problems with the weather in London."

"Yeah,", he smiled back "think so."

"Mind a cup of tea?", she asked politely.

"Not at all."

And he followed her through the corridors to the canteen. It was empty at that time of the day, except for a very young girl sitting at a table, eyes on an enormous volume of applied physics. She seemed so small compared to what she was reading. They sat at a table nearby, but distant enough to let the girl by herself and not interrupt her.

"So finally your first day has arrived…", she started.

"Seems so…"

"Nervous?"

"Panicking.", he smiled in a grimace.

"You'll be alright, don't worry."

"Hope so.", he answered, taking a sip of hot tea.

The sensation of the hot drink down to his stomach was the most welcomed feeling of the whole morning. The warmth spread throughout his whole body, heating up his dead cold fingers and feet, making him forget the rain on his clothes. God save the tea would have been an appropriate hymn for that moment, he thought.

"The main problem", he added "is that I'm not even a proper organic chemistry professor. I've got a degree in medicine, not in chemistry."

"But Mike said you were the best in organic chemistry during your medicine studies. You even attended a full course in organic chemistry. Even Mike had to come to you for some tutoring. He said you were so good that you could've easily graduated in chemistry with no problems at all."

John couldn't help but blushing a bit at the compliment.

"Mike's always too kind. He's the best in the subject. I hope I will meet his expectations. Everyone's expectations."

"I'm sure you will. Mike has chosen you for a reason to substitute him during this year, so I guess you won't disappoint us at all."

John smiled once again, taking another sip of tea.

"Well, it'll be nice working with you.", she continued.

Then she looked at the clock on the wall.

"Holy…! It's past eight thirty! I've got an appointment with a student for her degree!"

Then stood up and looked at John.

"Sorry! And see you later!"

John stared at her while she left the room. She seemed nice. It was nice to have a nice colleague, he thought, before realising the absurdity of the sentence and laughing at himself for having thought it.

He spent some more time in the canteen and then left to his office.

Before taking the job Mike had offered him, he had revised everything that was needed for that year. It was the second year of organic chemistry and, luckily, the programme consisted of his favourite topics. Plus (he smiled, proud of himself) Mike was right. He was overly good at it. So good that as soon as he had resumed his old studies, everything had come naturally to his mind. Nevertheless he was nervous. He had never taught before and he didn't have the slightest idea on how it worked. Mike had told him it was easy, but, considering it now, he would've gone back to Afghanistan in a matter of seconds instead than facing a horde of students.

Ten o'clock approached slowly. At half past nine he left the office and walked towards his classroom.

It was empty and its emptiness scared him. It looked like a silent monster, ready to devour him as soon as he placed a step into it. He thus stepped to and fro the corridor for some minutes before deciding it was time to face his fears. He entered the room and sat at his place, taking out his papers from the briefcase. After two hours he wasn't soaking wet anymore, just a bit damp, but his briefcase looked like it had taken a bath into the Thames. It smelled of wet leather, a rather unpleasant scent to John Watson, but the paper inside was dry, thank god.

A bell rang and students entered the classroom some minutes later. He waited for them all to sit down, then started. If there had existed a scale of nervousness, on a scale from one to ten, he was sure he would've been at least a twenty.

"Good morning.", he managed to say.

The class looked at him unenthusiastically. He cleared his throat.

"As you should know, I'm the substitute of professor Mike Stamford for this academic year. My name is…"

He paused two seconds, struggling to remember how the hell his parents had named him.

"John H. Watson" he eventually said "Professor John H. Watson."

Ice broken, he felt a little better and he started talking about the topics they were going to deal with during the second year.

"The first topic of this year will be…"

And he went on, looking at the students in front of him, who had already started taking notes of his words. It gave him a strange feeling of power. While he talked, he stared at their faces. There were three girls sitting in the front row: a redhead with pale white skin, freckles and telescopes on her nose; a short black haired one with auburn eyes; and a Chinese looking one with the longest braid John had ever seen. Behind them all the other students: some tall, some short. An exceptionally thin guy with prominent cheekbones and red glasses. Another young man with a scarf that covered half of his face. A girl with spiky purple hair. Another young woman with a chignon. He examined everyone until his eyes fell on a student sitting in the last row. No one sat near him. He was resting his head on the desk, eyes fixed on the window, looking like he was analysing every single drop of rain. Black curls around his pale white skin. He seemed totally unimpressed by the fact that everyone else was taking notes. Everyone. Except him.

Something snapped in doctor Watson's mind. Wasn't he the same young man who had stumbled on him that exact morning? He kept on talking, but his thoughts started to drift away, trying to remember the runner's details. At some point the pale guy turned his face to John and he finally had the proof that he was the running guy or, at least, his twin. The young man yawned twice and John couldn't help but being annoyed at the laziness he was showing. First lesson and he was already not following a single word. Awful student, was the subsequent thought.

Ten minutes later, when his eyes met him once again, John was sure he was snoring on his desk. He should've called him in his office and he should've lectured him about the appropriate behaviour to withhold in a classroom.

As the bell rang, two hours later, the whole class stood up, except the young man who kept on sleeping peacefully. When the class was finally empty, John noticed he was still there. He got up from his chair and walked to the last row. He cleared his throat and spoke:

"Ahem! I think it's time to wake up, boy!", John said mimicking his own military voice, not that roughly though.

The young man opened his eyes, aquamarine eyes, and looked at him.

"Hello, professor.", he simply said.

"_Good morning, professor._", John grunted, amazed at the lack of formalism in the student's voice.

"I'm no professor.", smirked the other.

John rolled his eyes. Nothing good would come from that student.

"Just to clarify: I am your professor and you should show some form of respect towards me."

"Dull.", was his dry answer.

"What?"

"Respect. Formalities. They're dee-u-el-el. Dull. Boring."

John gawked at him, astonished.

"Showing respect is not dull or boring at all. I'm here doing my job, teaching you. And you should do your job by listening to my lesson, for the heaven's sake! You slept the whole time!"

"It was boooooring. I can't stay here and listen to boring things. I get bored. Sleeping has proven more interesting than your lesson.", the student remarked.

John couldn't really believe his ears. He froze for a second, torn between slapping that insolence out of the young man or killing him bare handed. He exhaled slowly.

"Yes. Yes. Boring! So I guess you know everything about organic chemistry…", he teased.

The pale man looked at him in the eyes. Ice cold eyes meeting his.

"I'd sound pretentious admitting that in front of my organic chemistry _professor_", he stressed the word 'professor' purposely "even if you aren't one."

John almost fainted. Better: doctor John H. Watson, a grown up man, almost fainted.

"What? Of course I am your organic chemistry professor!"

"I know that."

"Then why have you just said…?"

"Because you aren't a professor at all! Is it that hard to understand what my voice says?"

John gawked at the student in front of him.

"Ok. Ok.", huffed the young man "I'll explain."

He stood up and stared at John from head to toes. He was taller than him and that gave John a rather unpleasant feeling of uneasiness.

"You are a doctor. Army doctor. Three years in…Afghanistan, I'd say. Could be Iraq, though. Nevertheless Afghanistan is probably more accurate. You have been shot, that's why you returned to London about three months ago. People who look at you would think the bullet hit your right leg, since you limp slightly. That's rather incorrect. Your leg is psychosomatic. Yet you've been shot. Left shoulder. You are not trained as a teacher either, so you're doing a favour to a friend or, maybe, a friend is doing a favour to you. Crystal clear?"

John thought that his jaw had just dropped on the floor, but managed to recompose himself in no time, pretending he didn't hear what he had just heard. He didn't want to give that disrespectful student any satisfaction.

"Well," he said, swallowing "that doesn't mean you can sleep in my class! You are here to learn, not to sleep!"

"Test me.", the young man said nonchalantly.

"What?"

"Don't make me repeat the obvious every time. I said: test me. Ask me questions about your boring, dull, tedious lesson, if that's _so_ important to you."

"Ahem…ok.", John managed to say "So…what does the Zaitsev's rule say?"

"_The alkene formed in greatest amount is the one that corresponds to removal of the hydrogen from the β-carbon having the fewest hydrogen substituents. _Zaitsev's rule predicts that in an elimination reaction, the most stable alkene – typically the most substituted one – will be the favored product. While effective at predicting the favored product for many elimination reactions, Zaitsev's rule is subject to many exceptions.", he replied in a single breath, apparently heavily annoyed.

John couldn't help but blinking twice. He was totally sure the young man had been sleeping while he was explaining it in details. He gawked at him.

"Satisfied?"

John nodded, mouth dried.

In that exact moment the door opened.

"Oh, here you are finally!"

John turned to see who it was to notice it was the same man he had seen running after his student that morning. He was about to ask why he was looking for him, but his student spoke first.

"Where?"

So the man was looking for the pale young man, not for him.

"Chelsea."

"How many?"

"Triple. Waiting for you outside."

"Coming!"

The man at the door left and the young man put his coat on, evidently content of something.

"Oh! It's Christmas!", he said smiling to John, before bolting off the classroom.

John was left alone in the classroom, thinking about that absurd student. How could he know chemistry that well without having listened to a single word? But more important: how could he know everything (or, at least, a good part of everything) about him? He had some question to ask.

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**AN pt.2: this story will be also simultaneously published on AO3. My pen-name there it's the same as here: Leoithne.**

**Thank you for reading this!**


	2. Investigating

**AN: good morning!**

**Damn, I'm sleepy today. I've just come home from holidays and it looks like I haven't relaxed at all there. *Sighs***

**Anyway, here's the new chapter for those who are reading my new mess :) Enjoy it and drop a word if you feel to. You know: comments (negative, positive, whatever) are fully appreciated. And even if you don't drop a word, know that I love you anyway ;)**

**Well: all the rights to BBC, all the 'fun' to me!**

**(Already published on AO3 too)**

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Ten minutes later John was in his office filling in some forms the university gave him. It was a very tedious work to do: write your name, your tax code, your insurance number and so on. Tedious. As he thought of the word, the pale face of the young man came to his mind. That insolent young man. Not only he had almost managed to make John fall on the road that morning and hadn't even muttered an apology, but he also had given himself the permission to sleep during his lesson. Nevertheless he had to admit he was quite curious about him. He had looked at John for two minutes and had rattled off everything about his past life. That scared John. And tickled his curiosity at the same time.

He had to discover who that student was. He took his mobile out of his pocket and looked at the phone book until he reached the name of Mike Stamford. Having him been the previous professor of organic chemistry and being him the vice-chancellor of the university at the moment, he would surely have known who that icy eyes man was. He dialled and waited for the other man to pick up the call.

One ring. Two rings. Three rings. Maybe he was busy. Four rings. Five rings. He was about to hang up, when the harsh voice of Mike answered.

"Hello, John!", he said cordially.

"Hello, Mike. Am I disturbing you?"

"Not at all. I've just finished the most boring conference I have ever had the disgrace to attend.", he laughed.

"I'm sorry!", laughed back John.

"Have you already met the students?"

"Yes. I finished my first lesson…", he looked at his watch "…about two hours ago."

"Went well?"

"Yes, yes. I thought it would've been horrible, but it went pretty well. Nothing compared to your lessons, though."

"I don't believe so. Or I wouldn't have chosen you as a substitute."

"You were desperate!", John laughed one more time.

"Desperate? Sure. But believe me I didn't do it just because I was desperate, whatever you think. Why did you call me by the way? Any problems?"

"Yes and no. Or no and yes, if you prefer."

"About what?"

"About who, would be a more appropriate question."

"A colleague? A student?", asked Mike.

From his friend's voice, it seemed to John that Mike had already understood the problem, but he knew that it was impossible. How could he? Or could he?

"A student. I don't know his name, but…"

"Sherlock Holmes.", was the answer coming from the other part of the receiver.

"Who?", John asked agape.

"The name of the student you were going to ask about. His name is Sherlock Holmes."

"How the hell? Have you become telepathic all of a sudden?"

Mike giggled.

"Am I that funny?"

Replied John, a bit irritated. Not only a student had made a fool of him, now even one of his dearest friends was.

"No, no, John. Sorry.", he promptly apologised "Just…I was expecting it."

"Why that? Who's he?"

"He's a professor's dream and nightmare at the same time, or so they say. I had never had the chance to teach him, but professor Donovan describes him as a 'freak' or a 'psychopath'. And these aren't even the worst words associated with him."

"So you don't know him personally?"

"No, not really. I've seen him a lot of times in the corridors, but never met him. So if you were asking for advice…I'm not the right man to help you. You could ask Donovan, but her opinions are anything but useful. I think you'll have to discover everything by yourself."

"Well, thank you anyway, Mike.", John concluded.

"Anything for you, doctor Watson."

And they closed the call.

John sat pensive at his desk. So the student's name was Sherlock Holmes and he was quite well known because he was a 'freak'. But John couldn't really portray him in his mind as a freak, he portrayed him more as an arrogant, maybe, but not as a freak. He had to admit, anyway, that he knew nothing about him and that his judgement came from only two brief encounters with the young man, one of which had actually been a clash in the middle of a park. All his information, then, came from the five minutes chat they had just had.

He thought for a while to go looking for the professor Donovan and ask her about Sherlock Holmes, but he decided that if Mike said that she was unreliable, he wouldn't obtain any new useful information about the young man.

He sighed. It was his first day there and he was already exhausted and stressed. Nice. For the end of the week he would've been dead. Good. He closed his eyes to relax for a bit. He had no other lessons that day, neither he had lessons the day after. Organic chemistry II, his subject, was taught three times a week to the second year students. Young men and women studying chemistry. When he had been about to enrol at medicine, his college professor had pleaded him to enrol at chemistry instead. He had refused fiercely. And now he was teaching it. Odd is the world.

Minutes later his thoughts were focused one more time on the insolent student. The university surely had an archive of his students for the professors to consult. He stood up and went straight to the administrative office.

A pale middle-aged woman, John guessed she was in her late forties, was sitting behind her desk and looked at him inquisitively as soon as he stepped in the room. He was new there, so he had no idea if he could see the files about the students, but he took his chances.

"Good morning!", he said with a smile.

"'orning.", muttered the secretary.

"Ahem.", he coughed, a little embarrassed "I am the new organic chemistry professor. I'm rather a newbie in the university environment, and I'd like to ask if I have somehow any access at the students' files."

The secretary looked at him askance, like he was some sort of an alien.

"Yes.", she eventually huffed "There are some files you can consult. Not everything, though. You can see only the student's names, birthdays, grading and such things."

"It would do anyway, thanks."

"Name?"

"John Watson. Professor John Watson."

"Ok.", she said while writing his name on the PC "Name of the student?"

"Ahem.", he coughed one more time "Sherlock Holmes."

The secretary's eyes brightened all of a sudden.

"Oh, him again. What has he done this time?"

John looked at her puzzled and confused.

"Sorry, what?"

"You aren't surely the first who comes here for his file."

She opened a drawer next to her and handled him a yellowish folder.

"Here it is. I always keep it in here. I had to print it down, since it is much requested. At least ten professors had asked for it."

John sat on a chair in the room and opened the folder. Inside there were three papers. The first claimed:

_Sherlock Holmes_

_Enrolled: Chemistry BSc._

_Currently: second year._

_First year marks:_

_Organic chemistry I : A*_

_Inorganic chemistry I: A*_

_Physical chemistry I: A*_

_Second year marks:_

And nothing more. He turned to the second page. He immediately noticed they were notes made by different professors.

_Sherlock Holmes is surely one of the most gifted and talented students that has ever attended this university. His skills in chemistry and in any other subject are extraordinary, although he shows a complete lack of respects for the subjects studied and shows no respect to his fellow students either._

_Professor William Alexander Hill_

_The student Sherlock Holmes provides professors, myself included, with an interesting case. He shows no interest at all in the subjects studied. He never does his assignments, he usually doesn't attend most of the lessons, or leaves the classroom without any valid explanation. Nevertheless his marks are always the top. He is extremely brilliant, but his behaviour obscures his cleverness._

_Professor Sandra Holborn_

The last one was the angriest note John had ever read.

_Sherlock Holmes is one of the worst students I've ever had the chance to teach in my career. He's disrespectful not only towards his fellow students, but also towards the professor. He spends most of the time in the class huffing in annoyance or complaining because I, in his opinion, lack of knowledge in every topic. He also asks useless questions that has nothing to do with the course all the time and other times he just answers the questions I ask him by exposing the private life of some of his fellow students. He's a freak, as they say, but I'm quite sure he's some sort of a psychopath. That's probably the reason why, after two years of enrolment, he's still in his first year._

John didn't even need to look at the name to know that it was professor Donovan's report. He was in the second year now, so the reports had to be rather old. Nevertheless he was surprised that Mr. Holmes was still in his second year, despite his cleverness. Probably his behaviour irritated everyone and his lack of interest during the lessons had made it.

He stared at the last report for a while and, despite it being a very awful depiction of Holmes's character and behaviour, John smiled. He should've talked to professor Donovan after all, but not that day. He wanted to gather some other information about that student before facing the woman.

The third paper just showed the first page of a local newspaper with a very young Sherlock Holmes holding a prize for his chemistry project. Probably during his college years. He closed the folder and gave it back to the secretary.

It was becoming quite late and he was starting to be seriously tired. He had nothing to do anymore at the university, so he went to his office, took his briefcase and put on his jacket, ready to go back home.

It was six o'clock when he exited through the front door. The heavy rain of that morning had eventually given space to a clear sky. The sun was setting down and the sky was painted in various tones of red, purple and blue. Stripes of white clouds shattered on the horizon due to the cold, strong wind. The white lights of the city stood out from the black shapes of houses and skyscrapers, while the moon peered out from the blackest part of the sky, creating a picture worth to see. In evenings like those John remembered why he loved London so much.

He sat at the bus stop waiting for his bus to arrive. Ten minutes later he was on his way home. He was staying in that thanks to a little pension for veterans, totally paid by the state, and he despised it. But as soon as he had returned from Afghanistan he had no other place where to go, so that accommodation had been the only possible solution. The flat consisted of three squalid rooms: a living room with the smallest kitchen ever, a pit of a bedroom and a hole-bathroom. He hoped that with his new salary as a professor he could afford a bigger (tidier, at least) place. He had already started to look around for a new flat, but he needed to wait his first earnings before deciding. He had owned a house once. His proper house, but, after the divorce, everything had gone to his ex-wife. He sighed out loud.

Twenty minutes later, he was at home. He was literally starving and went straight to the fridge, only to discover that he had totally forgotten to do the shopping. He cursed himself. That meant two things: he could go to do the shopping now or he could go buy a sandwich in the pub nearby. He went for the second option.

He went downstairs, exited in the street again, entered The Privateer pub, greeted Phil, the owner, bought a tuna sandwich, ate it with a beer on the house, stayed for a while chatting about football with an habitué and went home again.

Sitting on the bed, John thought about his first strange day as a professor. Unconsciously, he switched on his laptop and, before even realising it, he was tapping the name 'Sherlock Holmes' on its keyboard. Seconds later a prominent result appeared.

_The Science of Deduction by Sherlock Holmes._

It was his website. He scrolled down to read what he had written.

After five minutes he started to think that Sherlock Holmes was crazy. Or at least something very near to it. He claimed to be able to identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb. Madness, obviously. It was completely rubbish. He was just an arrogant prick that wanted show himself off. He grunted. Why was he always surrounded by weird people? Like that girl in the college, who resulted to be a very well-known drug dealer. Or that other bloke during his second year at the university, who had a 'fixation' for corpses' limbs and kept bringing them in their shared flat until he had discovered a skull under his bed. He had had almost died of heart attack back then. And now there was this young man, namely Sherlock Holmes, with a brilliant brain, a total lack of respect towards the authorities and the ego of an entire galaxy.

Apart from that, he couldn't really stop thinking about the way Holmes had exposed his whole life in front of his eyes. How he did that, John didn't know. That's why, despite everything, he found him extremely fascinating.

"Nice day, John, uh?", he said to himself.

He switched off the laptop and crawled into bed, starting to snore as soon as he hit the pillow.

Nevertheless, at two a.m., nightmares of war woke him up. He went to the fridge, drank some water and returned to bed, not managing to go back to sleep.


	3. The Curiosity of Dr Watson

**AN: hello everyone!**

**Third chapter is here! I sympathise a bit with my poor John. I always make him suffer in some way or another in my fanfics (nothing serious, I promise!), but I love him too much to not make him my suffering puppet! (Forgive me, John!)**

**Anyway, I leave you all to the chapter! If you feel like, as always, drop a comment!**

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Exhausted for the sleepless night, at seven a.m. John crawled out of bed. He had to face once again the fact that there was nothing to eat in the house and he had to nibble some very old biscuits he couldn't even remember to have bought with two glasses of water. If that wasn't his worst breakfast, surely it was in the top five, the first on the list being an awful lamb chop he had eaten in Afghanistan. He could still taste it on his tongue and it brought him shivers of disgust. A half moulded biscuit was thousand times better, he thought.

He didn't need to go to university that day, because he had no lessons, but he still had to fill in some forms and surely had to revise some topics for the next lesson. He took it slowly and arrived at the university at nine o'clock. He spent the whole day reading a ton of books in the library, taking notes of parts he didn't remember, memorising everything he needed. To the students coming and going, he surely looked rather funny. Obviously no professor spent that much time in the library, on books as he was doing. He heard some of them softly giggling and saw some others pointing at him before leaving the place. At four p.m. he decided he had enough of everything and stood up, ready to go.

He had to do the shopping. He took the bus, got off at the previous stop and entered Tesco. Half an hour later he came out with three bags of groceries. Sufficient enough for a week and a half, he thought.

He returned home, cooked an hamburger and ate it with some salad. He then sat on the ragged armchair of the living room and switched on the TV, but he was so exhausted that he fell asleep seconds later. He woke up at midnight, with a stiff neck and with his left shoulder that seemed to have taken fire. He stood up and crawled to the bathroom. The taste of the hamburger was still in his mouth and he had to brush his teeth twice to make it vanish. He then moved to the bedroom.

He noticed he had forgotten the window open. The breeze that was invading the room was quite chilly and woke him up completely. He started to massage his shoulders and moved to the window to shut it. Instead he found himself inhaling and exhaling the cold night air. The street below was quite silent and he could only hear the muffled voices coming from the inside of the pub below, the buzz of the sex shop's neon sign and the cry of an ambulance in the distance. Three people were walking under the orange light of the street lamps, moving towards the bus stop.

The sky was crystal clear. There were no clouds and the moon spread his white light all over the city. John could even see two or three stars glittering on the celestial vault. It was rare in London such a spectacle, due to the light pollution of the city, and for this precise reason it was breath-taking. John lost himself in the view, until he started to have creeps all over his skin. September nights were still rather cold.

He shut the window and went to bed, in a blissful state. He slept peacefully until the alarm on his mobile phone rang at six.

It was the day of his second lessons and it was due to start at eight o'clock. He was grateful to the fact he had a good sleeping night, even if his neck was still sore from the nap on the armchair, at least his shoulder wasn't bugging him anymore. He ate a proper breakfast (tea, biscuits and scrambled eggs), had a shower and got dressed. He thus went to the bus stop and waited for the bus. It arrived a bit later than usually, but he was really on time, so that at a quarter to eight he was already in the classroom.

Some students were already sitting there too. There were ten of them, everyone busy with their own affairs: one was writing down on a textbook, three were chatting, one was texting on his mobile, two were looking at their own laptops, the other four were reading a book. He looked outside the window. It was a rather warm day differently from the previous two days and the sky was of a very deep blue. Here and there, there were white clouds drifting high up, but down on earth the wind was mild and tepid.

The bell rang and the horde of students poured into the classroom. He looked to see if there was Sherlock Holmes among them, but he saw no sign of him. The course obviously was a compulsory attendance one. It meant he had to give him a black mark. For some reason he didn't want, so he decided to wait for half an hour before writing it down. And exactly half an hour later (John was about to take his pen, while explaining the Configurational Stereoisomers of Alkenes) Sherlock Holmes made his entrance from the door at the back of the classroom. No one of the students seemed to mind or greeted him. He sat at the usual place in the last row, completely silent.

John noticed he didn't have either a bag or a backpack, therefore he had no books nor pens with him. As the young man sat down (John was eloquently introducing the Sequence Rule for Assignment of Alkene Configurations), he dropped his head back and started to stare at the ceiling. He hadn't even taken his coat off and all he did for the whole lesson was just looking up, not dropping his head back for a single second. At least he wasn't sleeping, thought John. Maybe he was even listening, although he highly doubted that.

At the end of the lesson John gave the students an assignment for the next week.

"Tomorrow we will continue with the Alkene Configurations, but I'm already giving you an assignment about that, so that you have an extra day to think about it."

And he wrote it on the whiteboard. Everyone copied it. Everyone, as always, except Sherlock Holmes, who was still looking up at the ceiling, blissfully unaware of everything else but his own thoughts.

On that same day John had the disgrace (yes, he called it a "disgrace" for a reason) to meet professor Sally Donovan. They met at the canteen, sitting at the same table. Another professor addressed to her calling her 'Donovan', therefore John knew who she was. She was a rather young looking woman, slightly dark skin, long black curly hair, big dark brown eyes and a nice smile. Despite the appearance, she was a nightmare. She badmouthed everyone: from the canteen assistants to the colleagues, from the students to the Queen herself. She had a foul word for everyone. But John soon discovered that her most prominent area of interest was, beyond any doubt, Sherlock Holmes.

"Has the freak done something new yet?", she asked to a blonde man, namely professor Maycomb.

"Well, the other day I found him in the laboratory with what it looked like a human eye…he was _dissecting_ it, I think.", the man answered with disgust.

"And that's not even the worst of what he's capable. Remember the explosion? I'm still surprised he hadn't been expelled at the time. Or when he starts blabbering about private facts. One girl almost choked on her tears because the freak had told her in front of the classroom that her boyfriend was a compulsive cheater…"

The conversation went on for a while and the more it went on, the more John Watson couldn't believe his ears, the more wanted to punch Sally Donovan right on the nose. Sherlock Holmes was surely, from their descriptions, one of the most arrogant, childish, impossible man he had ever met, but he was a pale shadow confronted to the perpetual poison coming out from that young professor. He finished his lunch in a hurry, desperately wanting to leave the place before doing something he would have regretted in no time.

The afternoon passed so slowly that John thought it was never going to end. It eventually ended and he went home, still focused on what professor Donovan and his colleagues had said about the student named Sherlock Holmes. The explosion part was the one that was bugging him the most. What had happened? He wanted to know it so badly that he thought he should go to the police and ask if there had been any accidents in the university in the last two years. He discarded the thought a while later. It was a slightly creepy idea and he didn't want to become the "stalker professor". And for some unknown reason he was sure that Sherlock Holmes would have known what he had done in no time.

The day after he had the last lesson of the week with his second year students. No sign of the young man anywhere this time. He had waited more than thirty minutes before realising that Sherlock Holmes wasn't going to show up that day. He had to give him a black mark. He hated himself for it and cursed silently the young man for his complete lack of respect towards his fellow students, who had all decorously sat on their chairs during his two hours lesson, and towards the subject, which John was teaching at his best. But mainly he cursed Sherlock Holmes for he was showing his lack of respect towards him. He had mentally defended the young man the previous day versus Sally Donovan and John was now furious for having done it. After all he was just an arrogant young man, professor Donovan was right. He huffed and wrote the black mark down, thinking already of calling him into his office and make him understand that he couldn't just not attend the course and expect to pass the exams.

The first weekend after his first week of teaching passed rather nicely for John Watson.

On Saturday he went to see a free art exhibit in Chelsea. He enjoyed strolling down the little streets contoured by white houses. He enjoyed sitting at a table of a small café placed in a courtyard. He enjoyed the lovely warm weather while drinking an infusion of herbal tea made with roses, mango and blueberries, eating some scones with it. He enjoyed the art exhibit, obviously, but not as much as his walks around the quarter.

As he walked down a street he remembered the small conversation Sherlock Holmes had exchanged with the other man almost one week before. They were talking about a triple something in Chelsea. He wondered what was it about and who was the other men he had already met two times, always with Sherlock Holmes. A fellow student? He had seemed quite old to John Watson to attend university. Yet one could never say. The young man's father? No, he was too young for that. A relative? It could've been the case. But the reason why he had come to university looking for Sherlock Holmes remained a mystery. A triple what, in Chelsea? Was still the question that bugged John until he fell asleep that evening.

Sunday passed quickly. He had nothing important to do and decided to enjoy the still warm weather spending the day at the park. He brought with him a packet lunch and a chemistry book he had borrowed from the university's library. He sat under a tree and spent the whole day there.

Monday came fast too. It was time for his second week as a professor and he had started to think that he was rather enjoying it, even if it wasn't really his area of expertise.

At ten o'clock the lesson started as usual. This time Sherlock Holmes was sitting in his chair, but obviously wasn't following a single word of what John was saying. He simply looked out of the window and played with his blue scarf. Two hours passed like that and John was really getting frustrated about that behaviour. As the lesson finished, John addressed to the students.

"Before exiting the classroom, please put your assignment on my desk here."

Every single student moved to the desk. Even Sherlock Holmes got up and walked to it, but, instead of leaving his assignment on the table, he went straight to the door. He had done it on purpose, John was completely sure of that.

"Sherlock Holmes!", John shouted at him, while giggles came from all the other students.

The young man turned back, an annoyed expression in his eyes.

"Yes?", he asked in a lax huff.

"Where's your assignment?"

"Oh. That. Uh. Boring. Couldn't be bothered with it. Haven't done it."

Had he really said it so frankly? John couldn't believe his ears one more time. He hadn't even lied. He had just stated a fact like it was the most normal and obvious thing. The girl who was placing her papers on the table smiled resigned.

"He always does that, professor."

"Not with me.", and he turned again to the young man who was still standing in the classroom "You. My office. Now."

Sherlock Holmes shrugged his shoulders. John picked up all the papers on the table, the briefcase and his jacket. As they exited the room, John feared that Sherlock Holmes would just go away and he was extremely surprised when he noticed that he was following him in silence. Nevertheless an amused smirk was visible on his lips. The student was finding the whole situation funny. John grunted in annoyance, ready to scold that insolent student about his awful behaviour. Three minutes later they were in his office and John realised he didn't even know how to start the conversation.

"So?", said the young man "Have you brought me here to play the game of silence?"

Arrogant prick, as always.

"No, Mr. Holmes.", he said calmly, weighing his words "You are in this office because of your disrespectful behaviour, because you missed a lesson last week and, _mainly_, because you haven't done your assignment and you seem to not care about it at all."

"But I do not care.", replied Holmes innocently "It was a boring assignment."

"Like my lessons, uh?", teased John.

"Oh, those are the worst.", answered the young man frankly.

John gawked at him.

"You won't get anywhere with your insolence."

"Maybe I don't want to get somewhere. And I don't accept speeches from a professor who isn't even a proper one! Even if he's enjoying the sensation of power that teaching is giving to him…", he remarked, teasingly.

John gulped. Was that Sherlock Holmes able to read his mind? He suddenly remembered all what the young man had told him about his own life the other day. He couldn't hold the question that was bugging him since their last brief encounter anymore. He swallowed hard and spoke:

"How do you do _that_? How did you know all these things about me?"

"Do you really want to know?", he honestly smiled.

"Yes, I do.", John found himself replying quickly.

Sherlock Holmes fixed his eyes on him.

"Army. That was easy. Your posture, your way of walking, of speaking, of moving says it all. Military trained. As for the doctor part: you teach organic chemistry, hard subject, but you have a deep knowledge of it, but not the deepest. I guessed you had attended a university course with it as facultative subject, so medicine it is."

John was staring at him agape, the young man stopped.

"Do you want me to go on?"

"Yes, please.", John said almost begging.

"Three years in Afghanistan. Your skin shows it. Your hands are tanned, so is your face. But they are both dry, slightly chapped in some parts. It means a desert place with little water to drink for a long time. Only three years of staying in the sand the whole day would have affected your skin that much. So army doctor, where to? Afghanistan or Iraq, obviously. Afghanistan was more probable, but I admit it was a lucky guess. As for the leg: you walk by limping a little and yet, while you teach, you never sit down. This means that when you are focused on something else you forget about it, so it doesn't trouble you at all. Psychosomatic, then. Left shoulder. You keep massaging it while you teach, it probably hurts still, so it means that is where you got shot. Am I wrong about anything?"

John was completely breathless. That Sherlock Holmes was…amazing.

"No. no.", he managed to utter "All correct. Perfect. That was…amazing. Seriously amazing."

"Really?", the young man raised an eyebrow.

He seemed somehow pleased and perplexed at the same time of what John had just told him.

"That's not what people usually say to me.", Holmes continued.

"And what do they say?"

"Piss off. Or something very similar in meaning."

John couldn't help but smiling. But then he remembered he was a professor and that he had to scold Sherlock Holmes anyway.

"Yet that doesn't mean you can just show disrespect to everyone, myself included. Especially: you can't just not do your assignment. They are useful for your personal growth."

"They are boring. I never do them. And you aren't going to change that."

Still an arrogant prick.

"If you did them, you wouldn't still be in the second year after three years of attendance!"

"Oh! I thought you had already read my folder. Thank you for the final confirmation.", he smirked "But not doing my assignments or not coming to your lessons it's not the reason because I'm still in my second academic year."

"And what's the reason, then?"

"I get distracted."

"By what?"

They were interrupted by a knock on the door. The person who had knocked didn't wait for John to answer and opened the door directly. It was the same man he had already seen with Holmes.

"Found you!", he panted like he had run a marathon.

"What's that, this time?"

"One woman, Southwark."

"Uninteresting."

"Wait until you see her."

"Ok. Ok. Coming.", Sherlock Holmes huffed.

John was looking at both of them, surprised. Triple, the previous time. One woman, this time. Were they talking about…sex? It was an obvious deduction.

"Who's on forensics? Don't say Anderson, please.", the young man continued.

The older man shrugged his shoulders. Forensics? Thought John. What had forensics to do with that? He shook his head. Maybe it was some sort of a code.

"Anderson no! I can't focus with him around. He's an idiot.", he pleaded.

"Was the only one available."

Sherlock Holmes nodded unenthusiastically and went out, leaving John Watson with a thousand questions in his mind. But three seconds later the face of the young man reappeared at the door.

"You're an army doctor…"

"Don't you say?", John teased.

"Any good?"

"Very", John cleared his throat "very good."

"Would you like to come with me?"

"Sorry, what?"

"I need your advice."

"About what?"

"You'll see."

John stared at the man for some seconds before answering.

"And you think I'll just come with _you_ just because _you _asked me for advice on I have no idea what?"

"Oh no, you won't do that for that reason.", Sherlock Holmes grinned.

"Why then?"

"Because you asked me what distracts me. If you come with me, you'll see."

John was still staring at the young man.

"And because it'll be less boring than your boring, dull, tedious lessons. And because you're dying to know where I am going.", he grinned again. "Come on, doctor Watson!"

As magnetically attracted by Sherlock Holmes's words, John Watson followed him outside his office. That young man was right once again: he was literally dying of curiosity.


	4. The Distractions of Holmes

**AN: Hello! How's everyone?**

**In this chapter we have a case, it's a rather silly case (and I find it incredibly hard to write about cases and such stuff, seriously), but I hope it does make sense at least... and if it doesn't, well, ooops. :)**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

As soon as they went out of the university, John noticed that the older man was waiting for them, standing in front of a police car.

"Are they going to interrogate you again? What have you done?", a student shouted out loud, addressed to Sherlock.

John looked at Sherlock Holmes, who seemed totally unimpressed by the remark and was instead looking at the grey haired man. He was a policeman, then. Why would a policeman ask for a student? Twice in less than a week, even. Three times if he counted the running at the park. He turned instinctively to the young man.

"Are…" he whispered, shaky voice "they going to arrest you?"

Holmes turned to him and gave him a puzzled, and nevertheless annoyed, glance.

"Don't be so predictable. It's boring. Obviously they aren't going to arrest me. Had that been the case, he would've handcuffed me in your office."

Right. Right. Then why there was a policeman asking for him?

"Maybe he was being polite?", John questioned.

But the young man didn't answer this time and spoke to the other man instead.

"I'll hail a taxi."

"Don't be silly! There's a car here, ready to take us there."

"Taxi, or I won't come."

The policeman said nothing but gave Sherlock Holmes an angry look, before entering the car, slamming the door and driving away. Three seconds later they were on a taxi. The student's phone buzzed, he read something on it and gave an address to the cabby. John came back to reason in that precise moment. What was he doing? Half of the university, colleagues included, had obviously seen him jump into a taxi behind a student. Which, he had to admit, was highly inappropriate. Professors didn't just follow their students around. Especially after having met them only one week before. Especially since the student he was following was the mysterious Sherlock Holmes. The mysterious part made all his doubts vanish. He desperately wanted to know where they were going, he desperately wanted to know what that student was hiding. Why he wanted that, he didn't know. Yet: in for a penny, in for a pound.

The young man stayed silent, while looking outside the window. It was John who broke the silence.

"Ahem.", he cleared his throat "Where are we going?"

"I thought it was obvious."

"Not obvious to me."

Holmes turned his head to him, still giving him an annoyed look.

"Southwark.", he answered in a huff.

"I think I got that."

"You asked."

Was Sherlock Holmes making a fool of him?

"I meant…", he snorted "where are we going in Southwark? Why have the police called you?"

"Oh, that.", replied the young man, pretending to be surprised at the question "You'll see."

And grinned slyly.

John Watson let out a sigh in despair. That man was the most annoying, impossible, disrespectful, maddening person he had ever met. Yet he was the most interesting one at the same time. The world could really be rather absurd sometimes. He turned away to the window, knowing that the conversation had ended. London was rolling in front of his eyes. Cars, workers, tourists. A perpetual flow in the streets which contributed to its appeal. As they approached to Southwark, clouds had gathered in the sky and it began to rain one more time. Little drops hit the windows of the taxi, creating a rather interesting scenery of the world outside. The outline of the buildings disappeared and everything turned to be a watercolour painting made by the red back lights of the car, mixed with the greyness of the sky and the colourful mix of people's clothes. A painting that wouldn't have made a bad impression in a modern gallery of art.

Minutes later the taxi stopped. He didn't even have the time to get off it, that Holmes had already paid the ride and was walking towards the other man (whose name was still unknown to John).

"Here.", he yelled at Holmes.

"I really hope it is worth my time. You know I don't move if it isn't at least a seven."

"Yeah. Yeah."

Then the policeman turned to John.

"Who's he?"

"He's with me.", and he turned to John too "Doctor John Watson, this is the Detective Inspector Lestrade."

The two of them looked at each other inquiringly, then shook their hands, not without a slight embarrassment. So he was the DI Lestrade, a police officer. Nice. Still he had no idea why they (Holmes, actually) had been summoned there. He stared at the other man looking for answers, but he noticed that the policeman was reciprocating with the same questioning air. He turned again to Sherlock Holmes, still expecting an explanation, which, again, didn't come.

"Where are we?", he asked, while entering a house.

"Guess.", the student teased.

"I really have no idea.", John admitted, disconsolate.

"You're no fun at all."

"What?"

Holmes sighed in annoyance.

"I'll give you some hints. Police. I'm not under arrest. A house in Southwark. What does it tell you?"

"I really don't know. I wish I knew, but…god, this is so confusing."

"Crime scene.", huffed the student "It's a crime scene."

"A…what?"

"Crime scene. I think I have already told you to not make me repeat the obvious."

"Why _the hell_ are we on a crime scene?", John gawked, completely astonished.

He was sure that his brain had stopped working properly. He, doctor John H. Watson, had just left the university, followed a student and reached a crime scene with him. He had no idea why they were there and the more he knew about Sherlock Holmes, the more he wasn't completely sure that he wanted to know him. There was something terribly wrong in that. Yet he was thrilled. As thrilled as he hadn't been in ages.

"You'll see", was again the quiet answer of the student.

The DI led them to a room upstairs. A rather young man with black hair was staring at them as they stepped up.

"Here it comes our favourite psychopath!", he shouted in disgust.

"Shut up, Anderson. Your voice is irritating enough even when you don't speak, so stop it already."

The man called Anderson, the forensic, as John remembered, set up to speak again, but obtained an askance look from the DI Lestrade and said nothing more.

They reached an empty room, which probably used to be a bedroom. The house was being subjected to some renewal and it was completely empty. It smelt of mould and rotten wood, of dust and of old. In the middle of it there was the body of a woman, eyes fixed on the ceiling, dead. So it was really a crime scene. For the whole time, John had almost thought it was a joke of some sort. Maybe Sherlock Holmes wanted to make a fool of him in front of the whole university. Maybe it was his idea of amusement. But the dead body on the floor persuaded him that everything the student had told him was the truth. Still he couldn't understand why they were there.

The young man approached to the body. He started to touch the clothes, the hands, the hair. He seemed to analyse every single centimetre of the body. He moved from one side to another, kneeling down, touching, as if he was reading the corpse, as if the dead had a story to tell him.

"Here, doctor Watson.", he said, still kneeling on the floor "Tell me what do you see."

John glanced at the DI hesitantly, but the man nodded and he reached his student. His more than mysterious student. He knelt down too and looked at the body.

"Slight blue skin.", he started to note "Turgidity of the tongue; fine, white froth at the mouth and at the nose."

Then put his hands on the chest of the woman and pressed hard, some water came out of her mouth. John blinked, astonished.

"She has drowned.", he couldn't almost believe his words as he pronounced them.

Sherlock Holmes was tapping on his phone, evidently looking for something.

"Anyway it's barely worth my time.", the young man said to the DI.

The police officer gawked.

"Sorry, what? She has _drowned_. Do you see any water source around?"

"Maybe she was brought there after being drowned to death.", answered the voice of Anderson at the door.

"Brilliant, Anderson. You're are wrong as always. She died here, in this right place. Yes, drowned to death."

"How?", muttered John, unable to make his brain function.

"Isn't it obvious?"

"It's not. Not at all.", he managed to answer.

Holmes let out the umpteenth annoyed sigh and started to speak.

"See that white circle on the floor? There was a bucket there. See the mould spots at the centre of it? The rooftop must be cracked and raindrops started to fall right there, so someone has put a bucket in that place to avoid a further tarnishing of the floor. It has rained a lot lately, so the bucket was probably full. Bucket has disappeared, she has drowned. She was drowned in the bucket. Murderer took the bucket away."

"Is it a homicide, then?"

"Yes. It was her step-brother."

Both John and the DI stared at the young man agape.

"Oh god, your brains are so placid…", he frowned "Single woman. She isn't married and she hasn't been married before. There's no sign of a ring on her ring finger. She was rich, very rich. The clothes she's wearing. They are very expensive, but old. So she can't buy new expensive clothes anymore. See her nails?"

And he pointed at the red painted nails.

"Badly painted, she does them, but she isn't an expert. She's still learning. She probably didn't need to do it before. She had a manicure. Now she doesn't anymore. This means she has lost her fortune. Or she was robbed of her heirloom, more probably. Who did that? Her brother. Step-brother."

"How do you even know she has got a step-brother? How do you even know her name?", the DI inquired.

"This house told me.", the young man calmly answered.

"This house?", the DI asked once more.

"Are you really so vacant?"

"We haven't got your brain. Spare me the embarrassment of it and go on, Sherlock."

"This house is being subjected to some renewal. It's an old house, uninhabited for quite a long time. I looked for it on internet and found that his old owner's name is George Roberts. He sold it three months ago. Looked for him on the net too. He's a very well-known lawyer. Some of his old photos show him with a young girl, namely Mary Wilson. Could've been his wife, but he's unmarried. So a relative. Checked the previous owner of this house: her name was Sarah Wilson, Mary Wilson's mother. She owned the place and she was the widow of Frank Roberts, George's father. So they are brother and sister. Mary's mother had remarried after her first husband's, Tom Wilson, death. When she died, she divided the heirloom equally between the two, even if George wasn't her natural son. But it wasn't enough for him. See?"

And he showed something on the mobile to the DI.

"Expensive cars, watches, clothes. Expensive habits. His part of the heirloom wasn't enough to maintain his lifestyle, so he prosecuted his step-sister. There are some articles on the matter. He won and she lost everything. No photos of them together anymore since the last year. She probably discovered that he had cheated during the trial, that he had set up some fake proofs. She asked for a meeting in their old house, this, which she hadn't agreed to sell. She was sentimentally attached to it. A lot of photos of the old happy days in this house on her Facebook profile. They met. She menaced to reveal everything, if he didn't give her back her heirloom. He panicked. He tried to strangle her. See the digits on the neck?"

John looked at the neck. True, he had missed those red fingerprints. Sherlock Holmes hadn't.

"He didn't manage to. But he saw the bucket. He hit her and drowned her in it."

"How do you know he's been here?"

"Footprints.", and he pointed at some damp spots in the corridor "Perfectly matching with the shoes he's wearing…", and he showed the phone to the DI again "in this photo. So step-brother. As I said, barely worth my time."

John was amazed, fascinated, intrigued. He didn't even know if there existed a word in the English vocabulary that could have described how he was feeling at the moment. He just stared, mouth ajar, at Sherlock Holmes, second year student of chemistry, arrogant, disrespectful and…the most brilliant man he had ever met.

"Well, I guess I have to thank you as always, Sherlock.", the DI said, exhaling like he had held his breath until that moment.

Holmes barely mumbled something in response and started to walk away. John followed. As they exited the door, John looked at the man beside him.

"Fantastic. Just…fantastic."

"What?", he replied, distracted.

"The whole…thing. You've been fantastic."

The young man smiled, evidently flattered by the compliment.

"So, _professor_ Watson, you now know what distracts me."

John gathered his thoughts for a second, then asked again:

"Who are you?"

"Sherlock Holmes.", teased the young man.

"You know what I meant…"

"What do you think?"

"No idea. Really not the slightest idea. I'd say…private detective, but it's impossible."

Holmes looked curiously at him.

"You may call me a 'police friend'. I'm a sort of consultant. When the police are out of their depths, _which is always_, they consult me. I entitled myself 'consulting detective', the only one in the world. I might have just invented the job.", he smiled, but in a serious way.

"So… is this your job?"

"A hobby."

"And that's the reason why you don't attend the lessons?"

"Most of the times yes. When I'm on a case I can't be bothered with anything else. Lessons are boring. This is more interesting, don't you think?"

John would have loved to answer yes, but he remembered he was a professor, a person who was supposed to educate his students, not to go along with their inopportune behaviour. So he found himself saying a totally different thing from the one he had in mind.

"No, Mr. Holmes. You should put your studies before everything else. This is not interesting and you shouldn't…"

"I thought you had said it had been fantastic."

"Yes, but…", he tried to say.

"So you enjoyed it too."

Mind-reading bastard.

"I have to admit that…"

"Don't bother. I thought that you were different from your colleagues. I was wrong. You are boring like every other professor. I'm sorry to have wasted your time, _professor_ Watson." , a disappointed expression on his face.

John was about to answer something, but Sherlock had speeded up and had already got into a taxi. The cab drove away and John Watson was left alone in the street.

He had to hail another taxi, since he had no idea about which bus to take, and thus went back to university, where he had left all his belongings: his jacket and his briefcase with everything in it. Luckily enough he had his wallet in the back pocket of his trousers. He thanked himself for having put it there that morning when he had taken it from the kitchen table. He went straight to his office and took everything. To be sincerely honest he had still some work to do there, but he knew that after what has happened that morning, he wouldn't have been able to focus on anything.

As he left his office, he stumbled upon professor Collins, who looked at him weirdly. Probably the rumour of him with Sherlock Holmes had already spread and he really didn't want to discover what his colleagues were thinking of him. He grunted a greet to her, and stormed out.

He was furious. With the young man, who had just somehow taken advantage of him, who had just proven to be the cleverest and most arrogant person he had ever had the disgrace to meet, who had behaved like a child and made a fool of him. Mainly he was furious with himself for he thought he had just lost an occasion to paint in colours his grey life.

The corpse, the quick autopsy, the mystery had thrilled him like nothing else in his life. They remembered him of his night watches in Afghanistan. The sight of the body, Holmes solving the crime, Holmes playing with him had imbued him with adrenaline, which was still running through his blood right to his head.

By the time he reached his flat, he had already cursed himself a thousand times for having said that sentence.

_You should put your studies before everything else. This is not interesting and you shouldn't…_

Not interesting? Who was he trying to fool? Not only it had been interesting, it had been fantastic. He had said that and then he had eaten his words back. He grunted in the emptiness of the room.

That night he didn't manage to sleep a single minute, images of what he had probably lost drifting in front of his eyes. He rolled in bed until the morning came.


	5. A Date

The morning after John's body was still so full of adrenaline and anger that it seemed to ache everywhere. His arms were stiff, so were the legs and his head was dizzy for the sleepless night. He had to take an aspirin or he wouldn't have been able to go to the university that morning. He had no lessons, but he thought that his presence in the building would have at least made him look like a person who took his job seriously. And he took it seriously, but Holmes was right: it was boring. The murder had been more exciting. He discarded the thought as soon as it came to his mind once again. He had to settle back to a normal life after Afghanistan, he didn't really need some more 'excitement' of that type. He ate his breakfast lost in his thoughts and looked at his emails. Nothing interesting. He switched the PC off and went out.

It was another rainy day in London and the bus he had to take seemed to be later than ever. The air was cold, but not wintry and small raindrops reached the ground now and then. Wind was blowing too and after ten minutes of waiting at the bus stop John couldn't help but being half frozen anyway. His fingertips were starting to be of a dead cold blue and his knuckles were of a burning red.

Despite the physical discomfort given by the wind, the aspirin was starting to hit him and he slowly became sleepy, until, some minutes later, he found himself softly snoring on the bus bench. He reopened the eyes as soon as his head started to drop towards his shoulder, only to notice that the bus had already left since there were no people anymore. He cursed them all mentally for not having woken him up. Next bus in twenty minutes. He decided to walk.

It actually wasn't a very long walk to the university. It took him forty minutes going at a medium pace, less if he hurried. He had no reason at all to hurry up, so he took it slowly. At seven thirty a.m. London was already completely awake. Cars were roaring down the streets, passers-by ran or walked to reach unknown destinations, girls and boys in their uniforms moved to their schools. The city that never slept was showing his life in that never-ending flow of bodies, like blood pumping in its veins, making its heart pulsing fiercely.

By walking John managed to warm a bit and to forget the stiffness of that morning. What he wasn't forgetting, instead, were the images of the previous day. On the contrary, they seemed to became brighter every step he took. Holmes's voice when he had explained the case, he realised, was the thing he remembered the most vividly. The young man had a deep baritone voice which was an undeniable part of his charm. For the young man was charming. And he was a student, he noted to himself seconds later. Nevertheless his voice echoed in John's brain until he reached his office.

In front of it was standing a young lady with short brown hair and blue eyes. She seemed to have been waiting for him.

"Good morning", he said.

"Good morning, professor Watson.", she replied "I was waiting for you."

"Really?"

"I've sent you an email to ask for an appointment the other day, but you haven't answered. I wouldn't have come, but…it's rather urgent. I'm sorry if I'm disturbing you."

University emails. He had forgotten to check those. Damn.

"Not disturbing at all. It's my fault. I had forgotten to check my email folder. Come in!", he smiled to her.

It came out that she was a student of biology, but that her professors had suggested that she should change course to chemistry, since she was really gifted for that subject. She had questions regarding everything that concerned the study of chemistry and John had never felt so uneasy at answering questions before. He tried to do his best, but he felt he confused more and more the ideas of the young woman in front of him rather than helping her. Nevertheless she thanked him and apologised once more for having intruded. That was the only remarkable thing that happened that Tuesday.

On Wednesday and on Thursday he had his lessons. It was becoming an habit of his to look directly at the spot where Holmes usually sat. No sign of him either Wednesday or Thursday. He wondered if the young man was just on a case, which apparently was the main reason why he didn't attend the lessons regularly, or if he was avoiding him. The first seemed the more probable, but the latter was bugging him the most.

As soon as he finished the Thursday lesson, he gave another assignment for the week to come. Holmes wouldn't have done it this time either. Problem was that if the young man went on this way he realised that he probably would have needed to talk to Mike about it. And to Sherlock's parents too. He tried to figure out how his parents would look, but failed miserably. He exited the classroom and, lost in his stream of thoughts, literally bumped into Laura Collins, who let all the books she was holding fall on the floor.

"Oh!", exclaimed John, while blushing red to the ear tips "I'm so sorry! I haven't seen you!"

And kneeled down with her to help her gather up the books scattered on the linoleum.

"It's nothing. Really. I didn't see you either!", she smiled.

And what a smile, thought John. She had got her honey blonde hair down, slightly curled towards the end, which perfectly contoured her rose pale skin and made her green eyes glitter behind her glasses. She was wearing a blue jacket and matching blue trousers, and a white shirt with a fabric ornament akin to a jabot on the front of it from which emerged her long, thin neck. In that attire, very different from the ones she usually wore, she looked perfect. John swallowed hard as their hands slightly touched two or three times and flushed redder.

"Thank you!", she said as she stood up with all her books comfortably in her arms once again.

John cleared his throat to ask if she needed any help in transporting them, but his mouth was so dry that he nothing came out when he tried to speak, and she walked away with John motionless and agape in the middle of the corridor.

John Watson passed the following weekend with a well distinguished sense of uneasiness. Nightmares of his soldier past haunted him more than the usual and he thus spent his insomniac nights roaming around the neighbourhood until morning came. On the contrary he spent his days in the flat, desperately trying to regain the lost sleep, not succeeding to.

The consequences of his weekend completely showed on his face on Monday. He had deep blue bags under his eyes and it looked like someone had bleached him of his natural skin colour. He was feeling quite sick too, with a terrible sense of nausea throughout his body. And he had a lesson that morning. Fine. He took an aspirin again, hoping for it to do its job fast.

At eight he was walking straight to his office, when he met professor Collins once again.

"Good morning!", she said lively and smiling.

"'morning.", grunted a yawning John in response.

She gave him a concerned look.

"Oh my! You look awful!"

"Yeah. Thank you for having reminded me that.", said John wearily.

"I didn't mean to be rude or impolite…", she quickly apologised "I'm sorry I had said that."

John shook his head.

"No, sorry. My fault. It's just…I'm not really in the mood today, I think."

"Hard days?"

"Yeah. I feel like a truck had hit me and left me on the road."

"Can I do something for you? I don't know…a coffee, maybe?"

John had to battle his stomach, which was already revolting at the idea of something going into it. He just couldn't refuse such a gentle offer.

"Yeah.", he answered, fighting back a retch "A coffee would be marvellous."

He followed Laura to the canteen in a state akin to a trance. They sat down and Laura went to take two cups of coffee for them. Just the smell of it made John turn purple. He couldn't drink it. He smiled, knowing that probably it was more similar to a grimace than to a proper smile. She didn't seem to notice, but he pushed the cup in front of him away. He pleaded his stomach to not give up in that exact moment.

"What happened?", she asked politely.

John, who was fighting his inner battle with the ever-growing sickness, barely heard her voice and found himself asking in a daze:

"What?"

"If you don't want to tell me, don't worry. Just know that I'll be here if you need to talk."

John mumbled a sound of approval and stared at her for a while, but not really paying attention, his head a separate entity from his body by now. He tried to recompose himself and coughed, as if it would've woken him up. She was still smiling softly.

"I am truly sorry…I've had a really awful weekend and…at the moment I am probably the worst company ever…"

She smiled, sipping her coffee slowly.

"It's ok. Don't worry."

Finally aspirin kicked off and he won over his stomach, which quieted down. He took his coffee and drank it quickly. It was hot and really welcome. The caffeine in it gave him an immediate shock and some of the sleepiness disappeared. He felt rather better. Not the best, but at least he felt like he could speak again without having to compose every single word thirty times in his head.

"Thanks for the coffee."

She smiled again. A beautiful smile for a beautiful woman. With the help of the coffee, he took his chances.

"I'm sorry for this…whole thing.", he said "Forgive me."

"I've already forgiven you. There's really nothing to worry about."

"Would you forgive me better if I invited you to dinner?"

She frowned a bit and John expected a negative answer. But then she opened in another of her smiles.

"Friday evening?"

"Perfect.", smiled John back, feeling definitely sick and definitely happy.

They stayed in silence for a while, smiling shyly and blushing now and then. He felt more like a teenager than a grown-up adult in that moment. He hadn't felt that way since a long time. Since his ex-wife, actually.

Minutes later they both got up and parted, John to his Monday lesson, Laura to the laboratory.

As John entered the classroom and as all the students sat down, John's eyes travelled to the usual spot in the last row. Empty still. He wondered what was happening to Sherlock Holmes. He had told John about the cases, but it had been a week since he last saw him and he felt a distinctive guilty feeling in his guts. He was worried. He shouldn't have been worried. Holmes was a normal student, like every other student in front of his eyes. Other two students were absent that day as the register said. It was the normality. It was perfectly normal. Still his guts said otherwise.

The next lesson and the lesson after that were the same. Holmes didn't show up and no one sat at his place, leaving it desolately empty, the feeling of it striking John deep inside. He felt like he had been deprived of something familiar. Surely he couldn't call the young man 'familiar', since he barely knew him. But his arrogant, disrespectful presence was something he had started to get used to. Like it was a part of the classroom, a part of his new life as a professor. And now he missed that part. Like he would've missed any other student who wasn't attending the lessons, he tried to persuade himself, only to be mentally slapped by his brain: Sherlock Holmes wasn't any other student and he was starting to be worried that he had upset him.

But Friday came and, with it, all the thoughts about Sherlock Holmes disappeared. It was the "grand jour" of his date with Laura and he felt completely at ease with himself. He wanted to make it perfect. The previous day they had arranged their meeting. John had discovered a cosy and romantic Thai restaurant near the university and booked a table for two at eight.

At six o'clock p.m. John Watson was nervous. Wrong. He was panicking. He had somehow managed to cut a hole through his best suit and it had thus become useless. His everyday wear wouldn't do either. He scavenged through his wardrobe to find something decent enough for a first date and eventually managed to find a lilac shirt and a pair of blue trousers he didn't even remember he had. They were old, but still tidy and smart. Nevertheless the hunt for them had made him sweat madly and he had to have a second shower. In less than one hour he had passed from being early to being almost late. At ten past seven he rushed out of the flat and ran to the flower shop nearby. Already closed. He cursed every creature on Earth and went straight into the nearest supermarket, managing to buy a lovely bouquet. At eight o'clock he was standing in front of the restaurant.

Laura arrived two minutes later. She wore a knee-length creamy shantung dress and blue silk shawl. John's eyes glittered in the dark at the sight and he felt extremely embarrassed for his lousy trousers and shirt, but she didn't mind.

"Hello John!", she smiled "You look lovely this way!"

"You too.", he managed to mutter. "Shall we go in?"

And they entered the restaurant.

The atmosphere was perfect. They were both rather nervous at the beginning, but soon the air became more and more relaxed.

"So you were a soldier in Afghanistan?"

"An army doctor, not really a soldier."

"Has it been hard? The life there, I mean."

"At first yes. Then you get used to it. Now I find it quite difficult to readjust to normal life."

"You're doing fine. And your students seem to like you."

"Really?"

"I've heard them speaking about you.", she smiled.

"Then I should be proud of myself.", he ironically answered.

"There are other rumours, though.", she remarked.

John knew that the rumours involved a taxi ride with Sherlock Holmes. Nevertheless he asked politely:

"What rumours?"

"Well,", she smiled slightly slyly "half of the school saw you getting into that taxi with Sherlock Holmes."

"Guess so.", John sighed with a smile.

"Where did you go?"

John thought about answering that question for some seconds. He would have loved to tell her the truth. They were on a date and he wanted to be completely honest with the person he was trying to build a relationship with. She would have understood. They would have laughed about it later. Yet he decided to not tell her anything about it.

"Nowhere important. He needed an advice about something.", he cleared his throat "That's all."

"You don't want to tell me, do you?"

"Really, it was nothing worth mentioning. Just…advice."

"With the police?"

John swallowed hard.

"Yeah."

An awkward silence fell between them, but John didn't want to say anything anymore on the matter. He felt like it was something private between him and the young man. As they finished their dessert two minutes later, they stood up, John paid the bill and they went outside the restaurant. Then Laura spoke again.

"They say he's a freak."

"Who?", replied John, pretending he didn't know what she was talking about.

"Mr. Holmes."

"Don't you know him? I mean, he should attend your course too."

"Never seen him. He has a habit, apparently, of not coming to lessons. No one seems to bother anymore. People just let him live, knowing that nothing good will come from him. Or so I've heard. Yet you went somewhere with him. I guess that it makes you special somehow.", she teased.

"I'm not special at all."

"Oh, you are to me."

And she kissed him. John froze for a second, unable to realise what was happening, but as he did, he answered the kiss passionately, his heart pounding in the chest. They broke the kiss at the same time and stared at each other for some seconds.

"Well," muttered John, rather embarrassed "I guess you've forgiven me for my awful Monday morning state."

"Guess so.", she smiled again "Bye John, see you on Monday!"

"Bye Laura!"

And he started walking home. Damn. She was brilliant, beautiful and she liked him. No one could've been happier than John Watson in that moment. He had thought that after Afghanistan he wouldn't be able to readjust to a normal life anymore. Instead here he was: a good job, even if still temporary; a good city where to live and a beautiful woman. He didn't need the thrill that the case with Sherlock Holmes had given him. He didn't need a dangerous life to be happy. Readjusting to a normal, quiet life was all he needed. Yes. What he needed. But was that what he wanted? The face of the young man appeared in his mind, the question lingering in the air still unanswered.


	6. Two And One Meeting

On Saturday, John spent his time doing some personal errands. He had to do the laundry, cleaning the flat (which was in a miserable state) and do the shopping. Still happy with the thoughts of the previous evening – he couldn't believe his luck of having found such a wonderful woman – the whole day passed almost without John noticing. By the evening he had exchanged several text messages with Laura, all of which had been lovely and had made him blush, and he was already planning their next date, which, he hoped, would have happened soon.

At nine o'clock p.m., while he was watching a crap television programme, his phone buzzed once again.

_Goodnight John  
__Kisses  
__Laura_

John smiled and texted her back.

_Goodnight and sweet dreams  
__John_

Needless to say that, when he went to bed, he dreamt of her. But not all the night was full of sweet dreams. As the first section of it had been full of warm, springy images of him and Laura, the second part of his sleep became the place of dark and mysterious dreams around the figure of the student Sherlock Holmes. It started with a vision of the young man falling down into a black hole and him trying to catch his hand, but failing. Then he saw him dead in an alley. Then he saw him laughing and then screaming in agony. He woke up in a pool of sweat, heavily breathing and with his heart racing.

The first thought of that morning was that he was really worried about Holmes. Two weeks were a very long time. He didn't want to nose into the young man's personal life, but, after his nightmares, he asked himself if he had to call the police. He sat on a chair in the kitchen trying to make up his mind. In the end he decided he was becoming paranoid and that there was nothing to worry about. So said his brain, his heart, he recognised, thought otherwise. But calling the police just to tell them that a man was in danger because he had had nightmares over it was out of question.

Instead he decided that he needed a good walk to put his thoughts straight.

The weather was nice once again and, even if it was already the end of September, the air smelt of fresh flowers and marine breeze. The sun was shining up in the sky and there were no clouds to be seen. He walked aimlessly for about three hours, before deciding to go towards Hyde Park. Since he hadn't had any breakfast, at midday he was literally starving. He thus stopped in a lovely café in a street nearby. He sat down and ordered a tuna salad and a pint of beer. As he started to eat it with taste, he heard someone approaching and addressing to him.

"Professor Watson!"

He looked up to meet a face he had least expected to see there. Dark curls and dark eyes, Sally Donovan was staring at him.

"Professor Donovan.", he said just like a greeting, but without any enthusiasm at all.

He silently cursed himself for having chosen that place in that moment. He didn't want to talk to her, because he had the strange sensation that she was going to question him about Sherlock Holmes, but he didn't want to seem rude either.

"I didn't expect to find you here."

_Me either_, thought John.

"Mind if I join you?"

Obviously he wanted to reply no, but it seemed that his vocal cord didn't want to cooperate, as he found himself answering:

"Yes, of course you can join me."

Professor Donovan smiled and ordered a Salad Niçoise with a bottle of water.

"So, professor Watson, who are you?", she said wryly.

"Sorry?"

"Who is the man that Sherlock Holmes had chosen?", she chuckled in a rather disgusting way "Everyone at the university wants to know that."

"Why? Have I done something wrong?"

"Wrong? Maybe. Weird? Certainly.", she replied.

"How's that?"

"Sherlock Holmes doesn't speak to professors. And yet you followed him. What happened? Are you his pet or something similar?"

"I'm not _his pet_. For the heaven's sake! I barely know him!", he yelled.

"Oh. So you don't know how he is."

"I don't know anything about him."

John felt the too well-known desire of punching her in the face right there. He restrained himself fiercely.

"So you don't know about the laboratory set on fire during his second day at the university? Or when he was found dissecting a human body in an empty classroom? Or when he almost punched to death a guy?"

John stared at her astonished.

"No.", he swallowed with difficulty "I knew nothing about that."

"What's your business with him, then?", she continued.

"I have no business at all with Mr. Holmes. He has just…"

What he was going to say? How could he justify again the fact that he, a professor, had followed Sherlock Holmes, a student, when he didn't know a single thing about the young man? And Donovan was no Laura. She would've killed him to obtain the information she needed, if given the chance.

"…asked me for advice."

Pitiful lie. Again.

"What kind of advice involves the police? He often goes away with the police. What does he do? You've seen him. Is he involved in some sort of crimes? He's a psychopath after all. He enjoys violence."

At this point, John understood that he couldn't stand it anymore. He stood up all of a sudden, looking at Donovan directly in the eyes.

"That's none of your business!", he shouted, anger raging through his body "He's just a student and you're making a criminal out of him!"

All the customers in the café turned to him, but he didn't care. All he cared about was trying to not kill her in front of witnesses. Hadn't there been witnesses, he was totally sure that he would've killed her.

"So that's your definitive answer?", she smiled sarcastically, knowing she was winning the fight.

"Yes.", he huffed "And it's better for you and for me that this conversation ends here."

Thus he went to pay, not having even finished his lunch and turned to the door to go away as fast as possible. As he was stepping out of the place, Donovan spoke again from her seat.

"Professor Watson. Just my advice: stay away from Sherlock Holmes."

He closed the door so violently that, for a second, he thought the glass would break into pieces.

He walked to Hyde Park, trying to calm the rage which was burning inside him. How could someone take the liberty to define a person they barely know? She based her judgement about Sherlock Holmes on irrelevant facts, she didn't even notice how clever and brilliant that man was. How could she be so blind? What had Holmes done that made her so angry with him? Nevertheless she was wrong. The young man had, perhaps, an impossible behaviour, but he wasn't a psychopath. Not at all. Whatever he had done, to John Watson he was still an extraordinary human being with an extraordinary brain. He barely knew him, true. But Donovan was so repulsive that he was ready to take up the cudgels for Sherlock Holmes every time.

In this state of mind, he reached the park and started walking along the Serpentine. An hour later he had another meeting he hadn't expect to have. As he went to and fro the park, John noticed a known figure. DI Lestrade was staring at the pond, eating a croissant and holding a cup of coffee in his left hand. He thought for a second of letting him alone, but he had questions. Too many questions. John approached and greeted him.

"Good afternoon!"

The man turned to him and gave him a quick look.

"Good afternoon! Aren't you the one who was with Sherlock the other day?"

John nodded.

"Doctor Watson, right?"

"Yeah."

Lestrade smiled, while keeping munching his croissant.

"Mind a walk with me?", he asked John.

"Not at all."

John was so desperately in need of information about Sherlock Holmes that even if Lestrade had asked him to swim in the pond, he would've done it. He had so many questions he didn't even know from where to start. And Lestrade began in his stead.

"How long have you known him?"

There was no need to say the name. They both knew very well of whom they were talking about.

"Three weeks."

Lestrade's jaw fell open. John couldn't understand why, but he had to correct himself.

"No, sorry. I actually have known him for three days. I haven't seen him for two weeks, since, well, the crime scene."

"Are you a friend of his?"

"Who? Me? I'm his organic chemistry professor."

Lestrade gawked.

"What the…and he brought you to a crime scene! That's rather…unexpected…", the DI mumbled pensively.

"It was unexpected to me for sure.", John sincerely replied.

"Yeah, I bet."

The two walked in religious silence for a while, until John spoke again.

"And you? How long have you known him?"

"Five…no, six years."

"So you are his friend?"

"Me? You've got to be kidding! I'm just no one to him."

"You seemed to get along", John replied perplexed.

"You seemed too.", was the wry answer of the DI.

They stared at each other for some seconds before they both started to giggle.

"Ok. I guess we were both wrong about each other.", said John "But I can't seem to understand who he is, what is going on in his mind."

"Believe me, doctor Watson, no one can.", the DI wearily replied.

"But you've known him for six years! You must know something more than me!", John laughed.

"Want to bet?"

John shook his head, smiling.

"Enlighten me."

"Sherlock Holmes.", the DI started "He's the most brilliant mind I've ever stumbled upon in my whole career. Give him a case and expect it to be solved in a matter of hours. Where the police, myself included, fail, he shines bright. He's a lunatic, a loner and has got a taste for violence. He doesn't have any kind of attachment and he doesn't like people. I may be one of the few people he can stand, but only because I provide him with cases."

Lestrade stopped for a second.

"And yet he brought you to the crime scene…", he finished, mumbling.

John looked at him, puzzled.

"What does that mean?", he questioned.

"I don't know. It's the first time he does that. He has never brought anyone with him before."

They walked in silence for a while one more time, John lost in his thoughts about what the DI had just told him. He had been the first Holmes had brought to a crime scene. He didn't know if that should have made him feel flattered or scared to death. He broke the silence.

"Where did you meet him? How the two of you met? He can't just have popped into your office asking for a case!", joked John.

But Lestrade answered in a serious way this time.

"I'm afraid I can't tell you, doctor Watson. It's complicate. He'll tell you sooner or later."

"I doubt that. I haven't seen him for two weeks. I'm actually quite worried."

"Don't be.", the DI smiled reassuringly "He does that now and then. He's probably been busy with a case on his own."

"Did you give him one?"

"No. But he often hunts for criminals alone."

"Isn't it dangerous?", asked John, more worried than earlier.

"Believe me, he knows how to defend himself. I'm more worried about the criminals who have the disgrace to meet him…"

Something in the DI's pocket started beeping. He took out a pager.

"Damn! Even on my day off!", he cursed "Sorry, doctor Watson, I've got to go!"

"John, please. No one calls me doctor Watson anymore."

"Ok, then. I'm Greg. Greg Lestrade."

And he ran off.

Like it had happened with Donovan, Lestrade left him with more questions unsolved. The DI had known the young man for six years and had said that he didn't know him at all. John felt defeated. Never in his life something had bugged him so much, never in his life he had had no answers to his questions at all. Maybe he should've asked those question to Sherlock Holmes himself. He laughed at the idea so much that some passers-by looked at him like he was insane. But the young man answering his questions was somehow exhilarating, because he knew that he would never had.

He sat on a bench and admired the birds flying just over the surface of the pond, tracing wakes with their webbed feet. He was so lost in his thoughts, he almost didn't notice a figure sitting near him, until the figure spoke.

"Good afternoon, doctor Watson."

The baritone voice made him flinch. He turned to the man.

"Mr. Holmes?", he gawked, completely astonished.

"You seem surprised.", he smirked.

"Well, I am. I _bloody _am."

"Why?"

"Why?", John asked, puzzled "Because I haven't seen you for two weeks! And you reappear right now in a place I didn't expect to find you! And I was worried!"

"Worried?", he turned to John, eyes wide open "Seriously?"

"Yes. Of course I was."

Had he just really said that? Oh well, he was relieved of seeing him safe, that he didn't mind having told him that.

"You've been gone for two weeks…", he continued "where have you been?"

"I have been busy."

"You've been busy with what? A case, I suppose."

"Some sort of. I've been busy trying to understand why a person who had seemed totally intrigued by a crime scene, had denied it seconds later. Isn't it ridiculous?", he smirked dryly.

John frowned. The young man was obviously talking about him. And John didn't know what to answer. Not true. He knew what to answer, he was just denying it one more time.

"What's your opinion, doctor Watson?", he teased.

"Well…", he cleared his throat, embarrassed under the inquisitive gaze of the young man "I think that person has done it because he was confused. Because I was confused. And I'm supposed to educate my students, Mr. Holmes, not to follow them around…"

"Boring. You enjoyed it. Stop denying."

"I'm _not_ denying."

"If you think so.", he huffed in annoyance and took out a cigarette from his pocket.

John gave an askance look at him.

"I know. "Don't smoke, it's bad for your health", right?", he mimicked John's voice.

"Yeah. I was about to say that, Mr. Holmes."

"Just Sherlock."

"What?"

"You're making me repeat the obvious once again. No one calls me 'Mr. Holmes'. Sherlock will do."

"I am your _bloody_ professor! For the heaven's sake, I can't call you 'Sherlock'!", John yelled in frustration, managing to make a couple stop and stare at him.

"I see no university around us. You don't need to be that formal outside the classroom.", the young man smiled wryly.

"Formalities are boring, uh?", teased John.

"Yes, _John_."

"_Professor Watson_.", John remarked.

"You are so boring."

"It seems so."

"Whatever.", huffed the young man.

Then he lit up the cigarette and started to smoke it slowly. John was ready to scold him for his smoking habit but stopped. Instead he observed him from a short distance. He had already had the chance to watch him, but not this close and not for much time, being him busy either with the lessons or with a crime scene. He had black curly hair of medium length, which laid down softly on his nape. His skin was of a flawless pale white, so that on his neck he could see the purple-blue of his veins. His eyes were of a soft aquamarine colour, with pearlescent reflections, as some Polynesian waters. They were icy and seemed emotionless, but they glittered in the light of the Sunday afternoon, reflecting the blue of the sky above. His upper lip was softly curved in the shape of a bow and was rosy, contrasting the paleness of the skin behind. He was tall, taller than John. John was now finding it rather intimidating, but not discomforting. And he was thin, lithe. His fingers were almost all bones, with the knuckles so prominent they seemed to be skinless. He was wearing his usual long blue coat with the blue scarf. Under it he had a white shirt, a bit tight on his chest. Black trousers and shoes completed the outfit. He was elegant and charming for a student of his age. But how old was he? Was the question popping up in John's mind. He could've been twenty-two or twenty-three, judging by the look. Or he could've been younger. Or older. The whole Sherlock Holmes, actually, seemed ageless. Yes, ageless was the right word. Like he was suspended in time. An enigma even in that little detail.

"Are you analysing my physical aspect?", asked the young man, abruptly but quietly.

John looked away, rather embarrassed and blushing red. Holmes didn't seem to mind. John swiftly changed the subject of the conversation, clearing his throat.

"I have met two persons today who told me about you…"

"Who are they?"

"Can't you deduce?", John sardonically replied.

"Can't be bothered right now.", he puffed a ring of smoke "It's a waste of brain for such small things. Just tell me."

"You're not fun at all."

"Says the boring _professor_."

John shrugged his shoulders.

"Well, it was a person who loathes you…"

"Lot of people loathe me.", Holmes stated frankly, quite pleased.

"Female. She calls you a freak."

"Oh. Professor Donovan, then. I'm her favourite.", he smirked more than wryly.

"Correct."

"What did she tell you? I'm intrigued…", the young man enquired.

"She told me some facts related to you. Like the explosion in the laboratory or the corpse you were dissecting in an empty classroom. I didn't believe her."

John smiled, proud of himself. Obviously Holmes couldn't have done all those things. She had been exaggerating on purpose.

"You should believe that. It's the truth."

For a second John thought that his jaw had just disarticulated in surprise. It took John some seconds to start thinking properly again. The young man had just admitted to have dissected a corpse in an empty classroom. Was he really a psychopath as Donovan had said? His doubts were probably evident on his face, because Sherlock (no, Holmes, he reminded to himself) replied with the umpteenth huff of annoyance:

"They were _experiments_. And Donovan has got it wrong."

"About what?"

"I'm not a psychopath."

He did that again, thought John. He had just read his mind. He felt somehow naked in front of that man.

"I'm a high functioning sociopath.", he concluded "She should research better."

John looked at him extremely puzzled.

"And…", he cleared his throat once again "why does she hate you that much?"

"I guess the reason is because I exposed her personal sex life in front of the classroom during my second lesson with her."

John gawked.

"You did _what?_"

"She was being annoying. She asked me a lot of useless question about her subject. They were boring questions. I gave her something more interesting. Strangely enough, she hated me from that moment on.", he smirked.

John should've kept a serious expression and should've totally told Holmes that his behaviour had been highly inappropriate once again, but he simply smiled. The young man looked surprised, and John felt a rather pleasant feeling inside him.

"And who was the second person?", inquired Holmes.

"A person who likes you."

"No one likes me.", the young man stated bitterly.

"At least one person does."

"Who?"

Sherlock Holmes seemed surprised. John felt the urge to say "I do", but bit his tongue instead and answered:

"Lestrade."

"Oh. Him.", Holmes replied as if he had expected a different answer "And what did Lestrade say about me?"

"That you are the most brilliant person he has ever met."

The young man seemed rather confused by the compliment and looked like he was trying to find a proper answer.

"You didn't say you don't believe him, did you?", Holmes asked cautiously.

"Why should I say that?"

"Because you said you didn't believe Donovan either."

"But I agree with Lestrade!", John said, quite perplexed by the other man's sentence.

"Really?", Holmes gawked, astonished, fixing him with inquiring eyes.

John felt his face turning red once again.

"Yes…", he turned away, unable to sustain the gaze "I also think you're brilliant."

Then, feeling he had crossed some uncrossable boundary, John added:

"Disrespectful, immature, arrogant, but nevertheless brilliant. Yes.", he smiled.

The young man looked at him with a more than serious face and John thought for a second he had upset him. But Holmes smiled back and started to laugh, looking up at the sky. John had never heard him laughing before and found the sound of it odd and comfortable at the same time.

They stayed in silence for a while, both lost in unknown thoughts. But John had one last question to ask for that day:

"Why me?"

Sherlock (no, Holmes, John repeated to himself) didn't seem to understand and stared at him completely puzzled.

"Lestrade told me I was the first you brought to a crime scene with you.", John explained "Why me?"

Holmes seemed to gather his thoughts.

"Because you're a doctor. Because you are not as boring as the others. And because you are not a complete idiot."

John blinked twice at the insolence of the man in front of him.

"I suppose I should take it as a compliment.", he smirked wearily.

"Whatever.", was the dry answer.

The young man eventually stood up and started to walk away from John, turning his coat collar up.

"Bye, John.", he said.

John tried to tell him again that calling him by his first name was totally inappropriate and unacceptable. But before his brain could even elaborate the thought, he found himself answering:

"Goodbye, Sherlock."

John clearly sensed an amused smirk on the other man's lips.


	7. Where?

They had been standing in that dark stinking alley for two hours and a half. It was half past ten in the evening and it had been a very long day. John was freezing cold and, by the look, he knew that Sherlock Holmes wasn't any warmer. Except that John was shaking from head to feet and Holmes., as always, seemed totally unaffected by the circumstances. How did they manage to end there? John tried to recollect his memories to forget the cold biting his skin, deep down to his bones. Ah, yes. It had started like that…

* * *

That Friday morning he was waiting for the professors' meeting to start.

It had been a relatively good week for him. After the conversation he had had with Sherlock Holmes on Sunday, the student had returned to attend the lessons, thing that had filled him with a feeling of reassurance and comfort. The young man obviously hadn't followed a single word coming out from John's mouth, being intent either on window-staring or ceiling-staring, but nevertheless he had been present in the classroom.

Then on Wednesday he had gone out with Laura for a second date. They had gone to the cinema and had walked for a while around London. It had been a very happy date and he was preserving the memory of it very dearly.

But now, at ten a.m. on Friday morning, he was sitting in a corridor together with other ten professors of the chemistry department waiting for a meeting he didn't want to be part of to start. While he was repeating himself that was his duty to take part in that meeting, he felt his mobile buzzing in his pocket. He took it out.

_Need you – SH._

John frowned, staring at the screen with an expression on his face that was a mixture of astonishment, doubt and idiocy. How the hell Sherlock (he didn't even mind to call him Mr. Holmes this time) had got his phone number? Stupid question. He knew that the young man could've found it in no time. He was talking about Mr. I-know-all-Holmes after all. He ignored the text. Minutes later the phone buzzed again.

_Need you – SH._

He snorted at the screen, receiving some inquisitive gazes from the people around him.

Then the meeting started. They had to discuss about a new system of bureaucratic procedures that was about to be introduced in the university. An experimental project about which many professors weren't happy. He couldn't care less and he forced himself to sit down, trying to show some interest in the whole matter. Ten minutes later he was already bored to death. His mobile buzzed again.

_Need you – SH._

He ignored the text one more time. The professor in charge of speaking was talking about some violated privacy and similar stuffs. John tried desperately to find it interesting. Even Laura was attending the meeting and she seemed very keen on it, so John thought he had to demonstrate that he was interested too. Building a relationship with someone, in his opinion, meant staying by the other person's side even in those moments. His phone buzzed one more time.

He looked at it disconsolate, already knowing what he was going to read.

_Need you – SH._

While he was putting it back in his pocket, it started to buzz continually in his hand. One. Two. Three. Thirty times. He quickly looked at the screen. Thirty two messages. Thirty two messages by the same number. Thirty two messages by Sherlock Holmes. Thirty two messages with the same text.

_Need you – SH._

He couldn't help but smiling. But then he noticed that everyone in the room was looking at him.

"Sorry,", he managed to mutter "it's an emergency."

And he bolted off the room, twenty eyes following him until he closed the door. He finally decided to text back to Sherlock. He didn't even know what to write, so he simply texted:

_I'm busy. I'm attending a meeting. _

And he sent it. Two seconds later the answer arrived.

_Boring. You can leave it. – SH._

_I can't. It's important. _

_Not true. And most of all you're finding it extremely uninteresting. – SH._

John looked around him, expecting the face of Sherlock to appear somewhere in the corridor. No one to be seen anywhere. The corridor was just empty. Another text arrived.

_Don't look around like that, John. I'm not there. I'm not a stalker who loves spying on you. – SH._

How the…? But before he had even formulated the question in his mind, the phone buzzed.

_Don't waste your and my time in useless questions. I just happen to know how you do work. –SH._

John didn't know what to think anymore. He didn't know if being totally impressed by the other man's brilliance or being totally frightened by it. His phone interrupted the stream of thoughts.

_Need you – SH._

_I have already stated that I can't come._

_And I've already stated that you were bored. I'm offering you the perfect escape. –SH._

And it was true. John was bored to death and Sherlock couldn't have been more right than that. He needed an escape and Holmes had just provided him with one. His useless excuses crumbled into pieces in less than one second. He texted quickly:

_Where?_

_North Harrow. Take the tube. Will be waiting for you just outside the station. – SH._

John started to run in the corridor, oblivious of everything else but the thrill of adrenaline already pumping in his blood. He didn't even notice that he had left both his briefcase and his jacket in the meeting room. He just ran straight into the tube, changed two lines and forty minutes later he got off the train at the North Harrow station. Sherlock Holmes was standing on the platform and looked at him, a subtle smile on his lips.

"I knew you would've come!", the young man greeted him.

"Yeah. Yeah. You were right."

"I'm always right!"

"Are you always like this? Just to know what I might expect from you…"

Sherlock gave him a perplexed look.

"Ok. Ok. I'll shut up.", John sighed "Why am I here? What do you need me for?"

"Burglaries!", said Sherlock, evidently thrilled "There have been different cases of house breakings lately, all of them done by the same person…"

"Aren't burglaries boring for your brilliant mind?", interrupted John, quite surprised.

"Not these ones. These are worth my time. The burglar is really skilled. He never leaves a single trace. He just seems to magically appear in the houses, steal everything in it and disappear fifteen minutes later. He's methodically precise. Nevertheless, after three hours of thinking this night, I've been able to retrace a scheme in the houses he had chosen and I'm sure that this evening he's going to strike in this quarter. We just have to find which house…"

"Still: what do you need me for?", asked John.

He actually didn't care if the young man really needed him or not, but he wanted to know it anyway.

"I need you to walk with me around this quarter. A man walking alone in the same place the whole day would surely attract a lot of attention. I thought that the two of us will be less suspicious. Plus you're already enjoying it…", and he smirked with his usual wry smile.

There was really no need to deny it, John knew it would've been such a blatant lie.

"Oh, god, yes! I totally do!", he said enthusiastically.

Sherlock winked.

"Well then, doctor Watson, the game is on!"

John wondered for a moment why the other man had suddenly decided to call him doctor Watson. He had surely warned Sherlock to not call him John, but having seen he had done it on the previous Sunday and even in the text messages, he had expected that he would've done it again. He didn't know why, but it felt a little strange being called again by his surname.

They started to walk around North Harrow in silence. John had rather an hard time keeping up with the young man's pace, but followed him around constantly, never stopping nor showing any signs of weakness. Sherlock looked at every house they passed by attentively, scrutinising every inch of them. Sometimes he just said "not this" in seconds, other times he spent minutes with his eyes closed in front of a building, mumbling something intelligible before saying "no" and going on.

By two p.m. they had covered most of the quarter. John's legs were starting to feel a little sore and, despite the brisk air, he was sweating under his jumper. On the other hand Sherlock Holmes was still looking graceful. He moved around without showing any sign of tiredness or discomfort.

But there was a bigger problem for John. He was hungry. No, wrong. He was starving. If he didn't eat something soon, he would pass out on the pavement. He turned to Sherlock.

"Something to eat?", he asked.

"I'm not hungry."

"Well, I am. I was trying to suggest that we should stop for a bit and eat, don't know, a sandwich or a salad…"

Sherlock reciprocated the request with an annoyed look, but indicated a point down the street.

"There's a shopping centre there. I guess I can grant you fifteen minutes for your physical needs."

John gave the young man a bewildered look, tempted to answer something like 'at your orders, my majesty', but stopped after realising that Sherlock Holmes was still his student and he was still his professor.

"I don't know if you remember that, but I'm _still_ your professor, _Mr. Holmes_. Some respect would be highly appreciated."

Sherlock, obviously, sighed an annoyed huff.

"Boring as always, _John_."

John rolled his eyes. Now Sherlock was using his first name to tease him. That man was impossible. He asked himself why he was still following him around instead of just letting him alone with his burglars and his criminal hunt, but he had no logical answer to that and kept following. He shook his head.

They entered the shopping centre five minutes later and John immediately rushed into a coffee shop which served sandwiches that looked just delicious. Not that John was really minding the aspect of the food at that exact moment, since he was so hungry he could've eaten plastic. He turned to Sherlock:

"Which one do you want?", he asked, pointing at the cabinet where they were disposed.

"None.", was the dry reply.

"You should eat something!"

"I don't need to eat!", he answered rather angrily "Eating slows me down!"

"Eating doesn't slow you down, Sherlock! Eating keeps you moving! For the heaven's sake!"

And John bought two tuna sandwiches and tucked one into the hands of his student, who just looked at it and threw it into the next waste bin. John huffed heavily. It looked like he was dealing with a child, not with a grown up man. He knew that Holmes wasn't a common man at all, but this was just beyond craziness. The shop assistant was looking at them completely shocked and John felt helpless all of a sudden. He began to think again about leaving as soon as he finished his lunch. He sat down at a table and Sherlock, strangely, did the same. The young man seemed to be amused by something, because he was smirking contented.

"What's that?", John questioned.

"That what?"

"That face. You're smirking."

"Oh. That.", he smirked even more "You've just called me 'Sherlock' a second time."

John's head stopped functioning for a fraction of a second. Overcome by rage, he had called the young man by his first name. He had already started, he realised, to call him 'Sherlock' in his mind, because no matter how he tried he couldn't manage to stick with Mr. Holmes, but he had stupidly thought that he was strong enough to not let it ever slip out of his mouth. And there it was. He had just called a student of his by his first name. He knew immediately that from that moment on there wouldn't have been a coming back, but he tried his best to mend the disaster he had just done.

"Yeah. Sorry. It won't happen anymore. It was just the anger speaking…"

"I didn't take it as an offence!", the young man bursted out "I have asked to call me by that name. I see no need in apologising."

"I shouldn't call you by your first name. And you shouldn't call me by my first name. You're still _my student_ and I'm still _your professor._", John said, paying attention at lowering his voice therefore only Sherlock could hear.

"Yes, _John_. I'm still _your student_. Yet you're still following me."

Hit and sunk. John felt defeated.

"And stop being so boring and predictable.", he finished, almost a plea.

John bit his sandwich and started to eat it slowly, savouring every morsel as if it helped to clean his ideas. Sherlock looked at the people passing by. They stayed silent for a while.

"Does Lestrade know about this hunt?", John asked at some point.

"Not yet."

"He should."

"I'll contact him as soon as I find the house. Now shut up and let me think."

John shook his head one more time, but finished his sandwich without uttering a word. Minutes passed and Sherlock didn't move a finger. He stayed motionless, lost in a world of his own. John stared at him like he was some sort of an alien creature. And he was. Perhaps there was no nearest term to what Sherlock Holmes was than 'alien'. He seemed distant from the other people, inhuman sometimes. Inhuman was another word that John could associate with the young man. And he had his proof seconds later. A young lady approached to the table and addressed to him, who was still reflecting about something.

"I'm sorry, do you know…"

But she hadn't the time to end the sentence.

"Yes. I know that the toilet is on the second floor. And I know that your husband is cheating on you repeatedly. And yes with your male yoga teacher. Now if you are so kind to let me concentrate…"

At first the poor woman looked at him shocked, then returned to her friend muttering something like 'bastard' and 'I don't want to see him anymore' and started to sob heavily. John gave Sherlock an askance look.

"Why did you do that?", John inquired, feeling already defeated.

"Did what?"

"Telling those horrible things."

"What horrible things?", Sherlock seemed really puzzled by what John was saying.

"The husband cheating on her."

"It's the truth.", he gawked at John perplexed.

John was about to ask how he knew that, but let it drop. Sherlock knew. Like he knew his number, like he knew his tastes, like he knew his thoughts.

"It's the truth.", John repeated in a huff "But maybe she didn't want to know it! Not in that way!"

"She was asking her friend that!", he answered in annoyance "And her friend was lying to her! I've saved her time by telling her the truth!"

"That's not saving time! That's rude and impolite! Can't you see?", he roared.

Damn. Damn. Damn. Why was it always John who had to deal with this? He sighed and closed his eyes for a second.

"I'm sorry.", said the young man all of a sudden.

That was rather unexpected. John looked at him. Sherlock turned his head away and let out in a sigh:

"I'm not good with people."

He seemed sad. It was a very glum remark. John tried to say something, feeling the need to comfort the young man. But as he started to speak Sherlock's face brightened in the shape of a sudden realisation.

"I've got it!", he said, immediately standing up.

"Got what?"

"The house, John! I've got the house!"

And they bolted off, John still following him.

They had to walk for three hours to reach the place, because Sherlock admitted he had miscalculated the position. Then he seemed doubtful once again and they had to walk for another hour. Eventually the house was found and they hid in a dark alley near it to wait for the burglar to show up.

* * *

And it was that same alley where John was still standing after two hours and a half of waiting. Deadly cold, tired, with no other thought than the one of going home. His warm, comfortable home.

"Be right back. Wait for me here.", said Sherlock after two hours of complete silence and started to walk.

"Where are you going?", shouted John.

"I'll be back in minutes. Just wait.", he reassured.

One hour later Sherlock hadn't returned yet. John would've been worried if he hadn't been angry with him and exhausted. He cursed the young man for having abandoned him in a dark alley to freeze to death and hailed a taxi. After that awful day, all he wanted was a warm bed and to forget Sherlock Holmes for good.


	8. A Sherlock in The Flat

Despite his will to forget everything about that day, on his taxi ride back home, John couldn't really let the thoughts go.

The first thought was that it had been one of the weirdest days of his life, if not the weirdest. But the second, persistent thought was about the mysterious man called Sherlock Holmes, because the more he knew him, the more he became a mystery. According to what Lestrade had said, Sherlock had no friends and didn't like people and, after the scene at the shopping centre, John was finally realising why. Obviously he had already realised that most of the people would have found the young man terribly arrogant, pretentious and unbearable, but, on the other side, he had also thought that probably people didn't like him because they didn't know him at all. As he had done. For he hadn't liked him when they first had met, yet Sherlock's cleverness had made him change his mind. But no. Now it was clear why people didn't like him. Why Donovan didn't like him (he was still thinking that somehow both the professor and Sherlock had been exaggerating on their clashes, not anymore now). Why everyone looked at him as he was affected by some sort of pestilence.

And it was not only the shopping centre part. There was also the fact that the young man had drown John away from the university, made him run to and fro looking for some burglars and, in the end, left him there waiting for his return. Which hadn't happened. And it hadn't even been the first time. Sherlock had gone away from the crime scene. Sherlock had gone away from the park as if John had been almost transparent. John was angry. Mainly because Lestrade's words about him being the first person Sherlock had brought to a crime scene had made him think that the young man held him in a different light than the others. Mainly because after those morning messages he had almost been persuaded about the correctness of his theory. Mainly because in one day all his convictions had crumbled. Now, not only he wasn't sure about Sherlock anymore, he wasn't sure about himself.

He was lost in these thoughts when a vivid memory of that day kicked in: Sherlock apologising all of a sudden, doing it as if it was a sign of weakness. John had never heard, in their brief acquaintance, him say he was sorry. Not when John had scolded him. Not when John had tried to make it clear that he didn't want to be called by his first name. Yet he had done that day. John was sure it meant something, but, god help, if he did know what. Even the following sentence had been rather unusual for the young man.

_"__I'm not good with people."_

John was sure he had seen sadness in the other man's eyes, a trace of vulnerability never shown before, a statement that could mean everything and nothing at all. At the same time. Of course he wasn't good with people. John had noted that. He knew it too well. But he also knew that Sherlock didn't mind, first of all because if he had cared, he wouldn't have said those things out loud. So why that sentence out of the blue? Why did it sound like an apology not to the young lady he had made burst into tears, but to John? John knew he couldn't prove anything. Probably, and he sensed defeat one more time, he would never have known whether it was just his mind seeing things that hadn't the slightest reason to exist or not. Because of only one thing he was sure: that he couldn't ask Sherlock at all. That idea made him even angrier than before. Damn that young man. He was so angry with him and yet all his thoughts were focused on him. He wanted to shoo them away, but failed miserably.

The taxi had almost reached his flat, when John had eventually managed to make those reflections vanish. After a whole day, he took out his mobile. Four text messages and two calls. Laura Collins. He read them.

First message: _John, what has happened? You have just disappeared. What's the emergency?  
_Second message: _Why aren't you answering me?  
_Third message: _Is it something serious? I'm worried. I'm really worried about you. What's happening?  
_Fourth message: _I'm really, really worried now. Is there something I can do for you, to help?_

John smiled for she was worried for him and felt really bad at the same time. Lost in the chase with Holmes he had totally forgotten to check his mobile. He felt ashamed for having let Laura worry that much about him and he had no words to express it. He texted her back trying to demonstrate that he was really sorry about what had happened.

_Laura I'm so sorry. It was a family emergency._  
_It took me longer than I had expected and I totally forgot about my mobile._  
_All solved now anyway. Thank you for your kind messages._  
_I'll call you tomorrow morning and sorry again.  
John_

Lie. It was such a blatant, obvious, evident lie. An awful, horrible, terrible lie. John Watson didn't usually lie to his girlfriends. He had already done it once with Laura. This was the second time. Why had he done that? Oh yes. Sherlock Holmes. If that was even possible, he became even angrier with him.

The taxi stopped and he got out of it. He was still freezing from the waiting and, since he had warmed himself a bit in the cab, the cold air outside hit him stronger. He was desperately in need of a warm bed and of a deep sleep until the next morning. He stepped on the stairs and reached his flat, but as soon as he put his keys into the keyhole he discovered the door was open. His military senses kicked off. He entered the living room with circumspection. In the dim light he noticed a dark figure sitting on his armchair. He became conscious that it was a known silhouette. A person that shouldn't have been there at all. He turned on the light and the white face of Sherlock Holmes appeared from the darkness. Furious that the man had broken into his house, he yelled:

"Sherlock _bloody _Holmes! What the hell are you doing here?"

But at a second more attentive glance, he noticed something else. Sherlock's shirt was covered in blood and, by the way he was breathing, it was his own blood. The left upper part of the chest was literally soaked in blood and showed a cut in the fabric of the shirt. John passed in milliseconds from being irate to being sick with worry.

"Sherlock!", and this time wasn't a shout of anger at all as he rushed to him.

The young man, a weary smile on his face, spoke with a cracked voice:

"Evening, John."

By that time John was already kneeling near him, looking at the wound. It seemed pretty bad by the look of it and it surely needed some stitches.

"What have you done?"

"I? I haven't done anything.", he tried to jest, panting for the pain the wound was causing him.

John shook his head.

"The burglar…", Sherlock exhaled "hit me with a knife. I hadn't expected him to have a knife."

"Why haven't you gone to the hospital, for the hell's sake?"

"I don't like hospitals. I don't go there if unnecessary."

John gawked and shook his head a second time. Sherlock was such a child.

"In this case it _is_ necessary! You're wounded. You must go to the hospital, for the heaven's sake!"

"Lestrade tried to persuade me too.", said the young man "He insisted a lot. So I came to you."

John overlooked the fact that Sherlock not only knew his mobile phone number, but also his address, and stared at him directly in his eyes.

"You're a doctor.", continued Holmes "You can cure me."

"I can't…I…", tried to answer John.

"I trust you.", replied Sherlock, eyes fixed on him "I don't trust hospitals. I trust you."

"I haven't even got the proper equipment!"

"I trust you.", repeated Sherlock in a whisper.

Then he closed his eyes, inhaling and exhaling deeply in an evident attempt to soothe the pain. John wasn't even sure how the young man had managed to stay perfectly conscious all the time. He ran to the bathroom, oblivious of everything else but Sherlock bleeding in his living room. Luckily he had still got his medical kit. It wasn't the best around. It was old and it had certainly seen better days and he wouldn't have used it in any other occasion. But Sherlock had said he trusted him and John surely didn't want to contradict him right now. He went back to the other room with his instruments. He thanked himself for having at least bought a new surgical thread as he had come back from Afghanistan, since his old one was totally damaged and unusable. Nevertheless he needed to boil the needle to sterilise it before the use.

"I have to quickly boil the needle, Sherlock.", he explained "It will take a while. Are you still sure you don't want to go to the hospital?"

The young man, still eyes closed and breathing heavily, fiercely shook his head.

"Ok. Ok."

John filled a small pot with water to boil and put his surgical disposable gloves on. He did it so quickly he would've put the fastest person in the world to shame. Then he went back to Sherlock.

"I need to pull off your shirt to take a closer look at the wound. I'll do it slowly, so that I won't hurt you. If you feel pain as I do it, tell me to stop."

He started to open the buttons of the shirt, noticing that his hands were slightly shaking. He took a deep breath and went on. As he had told Sherlock, he began to pull it off very slowly. Some blood had already coagulated and thus he had to gently strip the fabric from the skin. Sherlock slightly groaned twice but didn't ask John to stop. As the chest was finally free from the shirt, John sighed in relief. The blood on the fabric had made it look worse than it actually was. It wasn't as deep as he had thought it to be, but it was indeed rather bad.

He took the bandages out of the box and cleared the area around the wound with some water. In the meanwhile the small pot had started to boil and John threw in the surgical needle. One minute of boiling would have disinfected it. He then rushed again to Sherlock and started to put some betadine on the cut, carefully trying to do it as softly as possible. The young man groaned at John's touch, but still didn't complain. When the needle was finally ready for use, John took it out from the water, dried it with a sterilised bandage and inserted the thread in. He looked at Sherlock as the needle got closer to his chest.

"Now it will hurt a little.", John announced.

Sherlock opened his eyes and stared at John.

"It's not the first time I have got stitches on me. It won't hurt that much. Don't worry, _John_."

The word 'John' was pronounced in such a reassuring tone that John felt his whole body getting warmer. That word echoed of deep trust. Had it been another moment, John would have brooded over it, but now his medical senses were stronger than anything else. He pierced Sherlock's flesh slowly but steadily. When the needle crossed the skin layer, Sherlock shivered, but didn't murmur anything. Ten stitches and not a single groan later, the cut was eventually sealed. John took some other betadine and disinfected it once again, before applying a fabric medical adhesive plaster on it.

As soon as John finished his job and moved to the sink, Sherlock got up from the armchair, put his blood soaked shirt on and took two steps towards the exit.

"Where are you going?", John swiftly addressed to Sherlock.

"Home.", he answered dryly, still voice cracked.

"You aren't going anywhere with that!"

The young man turned to him again, his eyes showing his weariness. John couldn't let him go at home alone in that state. But Sherlock evidently thought otherwise, because he started to walk again towards the door. But this time his legs didn't hold him up properly and he had to hang on the wall to keep himself standing. John huffed and run to him, catching him before he completely fell on the floor.

"See?", John smiled, despite the situation "You can't even walk properly…as a doctor I can't let you go home alone."

For a glimpse of a second John asked himself if Sherlock lived with his parents or not. The latter was more probable, but anyway he didn't want to ask Sherlock that question right in that moment.

"So what are you going to do?", the young man asked in a rather teasing tone "Are you letting me stay here?"

In a complete different situation, in a complete different life John would've thought that what he was about to do was highly inappropriate. Somewhere in the rear of his mind there was still a voice screaming that Sherlock Holmes was _his_ student and that he had already crossed a billion of boundaries with him. Nevertheless at the moment Sherlock was just a patient and he was a doctor. He couldn't just let him go. He nodded.

"Yes. Yes. You are going to sleep here tonight."

There came no answer from the young man who, instead, simply clang to John and allowed him to transport him to his bedroom. John helped him sit on the mattress and pull off his shirt once again. Sherlock didn't say anything, but passively accepted John's cares. He gave him his pyjama shirt and helped him putting it on, since Holmes couldn't obviously fully move his arm.

"Wait a second. I'm going to bring you a medicine to soothe the pain.", John announced.

"I don't need any.", Sherlock answered.

"Yes, you do. You're in pain right now and you can't just keep on denying it."

Having said that, he bolted off to the bathroom once again. He opened the drawer under the sink where he kept the drops he had taken to soothe the pain of the bullet wound, filled a glass of water and went back to the young man, who was still sitting on the bed, looking at the door. John gave him the glass of water and, quite surprisingly, he drank it without any complain.

"It will take ten minutes for it to have its effect."

"I know.", answered Sherlock flatly.

The conversation ended there. John stood upright near the door, waiting for the other man to say something, but it didn't happen. Minutes passed till Sherlock finally started to show the signs that the medicine was having the desired effect.

"You should lie down.", John said in a caring tone.

Sherlock did what John had told without protesting.

John watched Sherlock's head on the pillow, his eyes closed, his black curls around the face, his skin paler than ever. The characteristic smell of the betadine, mixed with that of blood, was filling the air, reminding John that the man had been wounded. He looked so vulnerable, so fragile in that state. Million light years away from the cold, distant look he always wore during the day. It was almost hard to believe that the person in that bed was the same person who stayed totally calm in front of a dead body. John smiled softly.

"You've got a question."

It was the young man's voice. It was furry and sleepy, yet coherent.

"It's nothing important right now.", replied John.

"Ask it. My brain is still working."

John thought about letting the question drop, but in the end he decided to ask it.

"Why have you left me waiting for you? Why have you gone alone to face that criminal?"

It had been the question that had bugged him since the taxi ride, reinforced as he had seen Sherlock covered in blood. Had John been there with the young man, he would have probably avoided it to happen. He sighed. Sherlock didn't answer for some seconds.

"I didn't want to get you into further trouble.", he eventually exhaled.

John looked at him, waiting for further explanation, which didn't come. Instead Sherlock turned his head away and said nothing.

At that point John turned away too, aimed to the living room. Yet, as soon as he took a step, a trembling voice whispered:

"I'm sorry. I always cause you so much trouble."

John had to stop, torn between going back to Sherlock and reassuring him or not. But he realised that Sherlock didn't want people to know his weakness, so, to avoid new complications with him and to spare him the embarrassment of the situation the morning after, John decided it was better to walk away in silence. As he heard the other man sigh in relief, he knew that it had been the best decision.

Exhausted and drained of all his strengths, John ducked in his armchair, desperately trying to sleep. A sleep that would've erased his spinning thoughts, a sleep that would have provided him with a clearer mind. A sleep that obviously didn't came. It was like he had a million of thoughts buzzing in his head, coherently forming two seconds before and becoming a mass of confusion two seconds later. Thoughts about Sherlock, obviously. About that young man who was quietly sleeping in his room. About that person that should've only been his student and it was far too many other things. About his own taste of danger which, in John's opinion, had made the two of them meet. All this kept him awake for a long time, questioning the nature of his almost non-existent and yet so deep bound with the young man. For he couldn't deny, in his own moment of weakness during that long night, that he was drawn by Sherlock Holmes like he had never been by anyone else before. With this thought he eventually fell asleep.

When he woke up the following morning, his whole body was aching: his legs were sore and so was his left shoulder, and so were his hands and feet. Trying to regain a proper composure, he wondered for two seconds why he had slept in his armchair. The medical kit still on the floor and some blood on the fabric of the seat allowed him to remember that Sherlock in his flat hadn't just been a weird dream. The rooms were still peaceful, therefore he deduced that the young man was still sleeping. He walked to his bedroom to see if everything was alright. He tried to not make the minimum amount of noise for he didn't want to wake him up.

Some creaks and squeaks of the floor later, he eventually reached it. As he looked in, he immediately noticed that the bed was empty. It had even been perfectly made with John's pyjama's shirt gracefully folded on it. On the other hand Sherlock's blood-stained shirt had disappeared, just like his owner. The window was flung open and John went near it. On the sill there was a piece of paper. John read.

_Your floorboards creak far too much. I highly suggest some repairing._  
_I didn't want to wake you up anyway, so I had to choose a different exit._  
_And I was right: your limp is definitively psychosomatic.  
Sherlock Holmes._

Further down on the paper there was something else.

_Thank you, doctor Watson._

That man was impossible. John shook his head and smiled.

**AN: ****Well, that was it. This chapter, I have to admit, was rather hard to write, especially on the medical part. I know that I have probably written something wrong about the whole procedure that John applies to help Sherlock, but I hope that it isn't very far from the reality nevertheless.**

**And I hope you "enjoyed" it.**

**Thank you for reading!**


	9. The Man with The Umbrella

John returned to the kitchen and put a kettle on the cooker for his breakfast tea. In the meanwhile, waiting for the water to boil and for his bread to toast, he picked up the mobile from the pocket of his trousers. He spent five minutes writing and re-writing a text message. On one hand he wanted to know how Sherlock was feeling, on the other hand the previous night seemed so surreal in his mind that he wasn't sure about himself anymore. His doctor side was less prominent that morning, while his professor (and thus rational) side was stronger. Sending a message to one of his students was not in the rules he had built up in his own brain. And he had already done something extremely improper the previous day by answering Sherlock's ones. Plus he had the odd, but rather correct, impression that Sherlock really didn't want to talk about the episode anymore. Hence his window escape. It was so obvious that the young man had chosen that way because he didn't want to have a more than awkward morning conversation with his supposed professor. A conversation that John was really glad to have avoided right now. Nevertheless he couldn't deny that he was quite pleased of that 'thank you' written on that piece of paper. Which was now lying on the kitchen table, while John sipped his tea. Undoubtedly he didn't send the message.

He had quite an obsession with tea, he admitted. It was one of the few things that always cheered him up and made his head clearer. Except, perhaps, danger, but he would have never admitted that out loud. The tea was a good thing to be obsessed with, danger wasn't. In that precise moment he was savouring a new flavour he had wanted to try out. It was a mango-pomegranate green tea which tasted rather bittersweet and, for a glimpse of a second, his mind associated it with the more than definite image of Sherlock Holmes. Another term linked with the young man: bittersweet. It really wasn't a word that could've been spoken easily, but in his mind, that was still possible. Unless, well, he had to face Holmes, for he was certain that the other man would've read it on his face in less than a nanosecond.

His phone started to buzz insistently. He panicked thinking it was Sherlock, he picked it up once again and glanced at the screen, fingers trembling. Laura. A sigh of relief (or of disappointment? He couldn't tell right in that moment). He took the call, having a hard time remembering why Laura was calling him in the morning. He knew it was perfectly normal for two people who were supposed to be in a relationship to call each other, yet his brain wasn't still functioning properly.

"Hello?", he muttered in a tone that could have easily been associated with a voice from the underworld.

"Hello?", she answered tentatively "Are you all right?"

"Yes, yes. Sorry, I've…"

Was he really going to say another lie?

"…just woken up."

Perfect. It wasn't a complete lie after all, he had woken up about twenty minutes before.

"Am I disturbing you?", she asked.

"Obviously not!", he smiled, his brain finally starting to work again.

"Really bad day yesterday, uh?"

"Yes. Awful day."

Actually, his mind was saying the opposite. It hadn't been awful. It hadn't even been near the word 'awful'. Strange, odd, unexpected: yes. Thrilling, electrifying: yes. Absurd: that too. But awful: not at all. Yet he remembered that he had told Laura that it had been a family emergency. He had, to his extreme displeasure, to keep on lying on that. As he had already told himself a dozen of times, he couldn't just say that he had gone out with a student to chase a criminal. Neither he could say that the same student happened to have slept in his bedroom. He sighed. Luckily Laura took it as a sigh of tiredness.

"God, you sound exhausted!"

And he was. This time he didn't have to lie.

"Yeah, a bit exhausted. But after the breakfast I'm already starting to feel better."

"I've called you because I wanted to invite you out this afternoon, but maybe you're too…"

"No, no! It's ok. This afternoon is perfect!", John rushed to answer.

And it was. He needed some peace of mind and Laura, well, Laura was the most ideal distraction. He smiled. The woman laughed softly.

"Well, then. Where shall we meet?", she asked.

"Don't know…a stroll in a park, maybe? And then a coffee somewhere?", John suggested.

"It sounds wonderful!", she answered in her oh-so-softly-sweet voice "What about Regent's Park, York Gate?"

"Marvellous! Three o'clock?"

"Perfect! I'm looking forward to meeting you. Plus I have something of yours!"

"What's that?", questioned John, quite surprised.

"Don't you remember?", she laughed mockingly "You'll see then! Later!"

And she ended the call.

John thought for a while about what she had to give him, without coming out with any decent idea. Nevertheless he was really happy to see her. Their last date had been what it seemed like ages ago, for she had been busy with the university and she had had a very full week. Hence she didn't have any free time. John hadn't minded that much, but now he realised that he missed her.

He finished his breakfast quietly happy and went to the bathroom to have a shower.

At half past two he was on his way to Regent's Park. Luckily it was a nice mid-October Saturday. The sun was shining in the deep blue sky, which was quite unusual for the season they were in. Even the temperature was agreeable and it looked more like an early spring afternoon rather than an autumn one. Yet the environment around completely showed it. Most of the trees had yellow, orange and red leaves that had already started to fall down, leaving the branches of those same trees bare, naked with their grey-brownish trunks. It gave London an air of darkness more than the rainy days, almost a foretaste of future years of desolation and destruction: the burning red of the leaves being the fire that would eat the city and the grey barks its remaining ashes, the bright sun in the blue sky just a mocker of that imminent decadence.

Before Laura arrived, John spent some time admiring the vibrancy of London's life one more time.

Through York Gate passed the Saturday people. London was as always full of tourists wandering from the streets into the park as though seeking shelter from the upheaval of the crowded pavements and busy roads. Families with children, elderly couples, young spirits all mixed together in a perpetual coming and going through the gardens.

Laura arrived five minutes later. She was dressed in simple, yet fitting clothes. A pair of blue jeans and a caramel pullover, her hair braided and her best smile on her lips. John's heart danced lively in his chest at the sight. As she approached, he immediately saw what were his belongings she had been talking about: his jacket and his briefcase! Due to the hunt with Sherlock and the consequent night, he had totally forgotten about their existence. He smiled foolishly at Laura, who laughed.

"You remember now!", she said as she handled the items to John.

"Oh yes! I don't really know where I had my head yesterday!", he chuckled.

"It must have been a rather serious emergency, having caused you such a lapse of memory…", she said gravely "Do you want to talk about it?"

John exhaled. He knew that the conversation would have eventually focus on that topic, but he had expected it to not be their first one. And here it was John Watson again, torn between the uneasiness of lying to his date and the unwillingness to tell the truth. He swallowed hard and cleared his throat, trying to find the right words to explain everything. Words that, unluckily, seemed to slip away from his brain.

"Well, I…", he managed to mutter, knowing that it sounded so wrong.

"There's no need to talk about it if you don't want to. But I thought that maybe I could help somehow…"

"Yes, I know.", John answered and, taking her hand into his, continued "And I appreciate your interest in it, but it's a rather complicated situation even for me at the moment. But I promise that as soon as I sort it out, I will tell you everything about it."

Nice, John, he mentally said, proud of himself. He could've told her another lie about, dunno, a problem with his ex-wife (he hadn't still told Laura about her, he realised) or something else; instead he had come out with a more than plausible explanation and it was the truth, for it was really a rather problematic situation that with Sherlock and he had still to understand the whole of it. And he didn't want to cause himself further confusion, before having solved it.

Laura smiled in response and John understood that she wouldn't have asked anything anymore. She just accepted that there were things he wasn't ready to talk about. He was very glad of that. She was a very good woman and he started to think that, perhaps, she could truly become someone important for him.

They spent the rest of the of the afternoon walking through the gardens, admiring the ponds with their swans and ducks, losing themselves in the Queen Mary's Gardens, whose flowers weren't that lively anymore, but preserved some memories of the last summer with the white roses still blooming gracefully. At six o'clock they parted, after having drunk a hot chocolate on a bench and having laughed about John's university years as well as Laura's ones.

John went home happy and relaxed as he hadn't been in ages, grateful that the afternoon with Laura had made him forget about the 'Sherlock's problem'. Actually, that wasn't quite true. Now and then, amid the smiles, the jokes, the hand holding, the image of Sherlock had come to John's mind, making him worry about his actual conditions. What if the wound hadn't healed properly? What if it had become infected? What if the young man was in pain? As he stepped into his flat, he picked up his mobile once more and started tapping on it.

_How are you?_

He never sent it.

Just as the Saturday had been a cheerful sunny day, Sunday manifested itself in its whole gloominess. When John woke up, at around seven, the sky outside was of a gun-metal grey and it was raining so hard that the whole flat echoed of raindrops like he was living under the Niagara falls. And he had to do the shopping. Damn himself and his idea of doing the shopping on Sunday because there were less people in the supermarket. Usually he didn't mind about the rain, but now it really looked like the Deluge. He took his umbrella and went out, becoming wet to the bones in less than three seconds. Not only it was pouring, there was also strong wind which made his attempts to stay dry totally useless. He almost began to run to reach the tube as fast as possible. While doing that, he noticed a black car on the opposite side of the road, moving slowly, as if it was following someone. But, except him, there was literally nobody around and no one would have needed to follow him around. He wasn't some sort of criminal or some important person. It was probably just his suspicious mind playing with him. He laughed at his foolishness.

Yet the car approached and stopped a bit further from where he was walking towards. A man in a grey suit and grey umbrella got off and stood still in that exact place. Inasmuch John was going in that same direction, he found himself getting closer to it step by step. Differently from John the rain didn't seem to touch the other man. Now he was almost by his side.

"Doctor John Watson?", the man in grey addressed to him.

He hadn't had even the time to think about the fact that a totally unknown man knew his name, that the other man grabbed his wrist and stopped him in the middle of the road.

"Get in the car."

John looked at him, in a mix of disbelief and daze.

"Or what?", he answered bravely, trying to understand what was happening, not finding a single logical solution.

"If you don't get into the car, I will have to make you."

"I refuse.", John replied once more "Who are you?"

The man in grey pulled his jacket aside, unveiling a gun.

"So?", the man threatened.

John swallowed and, unwillingly, entered the black car. The other man took the driver's seat and started their ride. John couldn't see where they were going for the windows were obscured and he could only take glimpses of the streets outside. He tried to focus on the turns, the noises, the crossings, but it seemed that the driver was just going round and round without a precise destination. Twenty minutes later they finally stopped in an industrial area, which John couldn't recognise at all.

Standing in the middle of it there was a tall man leaning on a black umbrella. He was dressed in a blue suit and had brown but icy eyes glimmering in the dim light of the place. He seemed perfectly at ease in such an abandoned building despite his luxurious appearance. John wasn't sure whether he were a criminal or a businessman, not that there was that big difference between the two categories either.

The man smiled a forced smile.

"Doctor Watson. Welcome.", he spoke in a serpentine voice "I was looking forward meeting you."

"I…wasn't.", answered John in his lousy attempt to sound firm.

"So, doctor Watson, what's the nature of your _collaboration_ with Sherlock Holmes?"

So it was all about Sherlock. He should've guessed that. In what kind of trouble had that young man put himself into? What did that man want? And why from him? He tried to regain his composure and spoke:

"Collaboration with whom?", he pretended to be surprised, swallowing hard.

"Don't waste my time, doctor Watson.", the man with the umbrella answered softly, but menacingly "Lying to me isn't the cleverest idea, you may want to know that."

"I am not…", but John didn't have the time to end the sentence.

"So you are basically denying that the other night Sherlock Holmes came to your flat?"

How the…? But the man spoke once again.

"By the look on your face is clear that I'm right. But don't worry. It'll be a secret between us." He hissed near John's ear "I just happen to know it because I'm concerned about him. _Very concerned_."

John gulped at the last two words which sent shivers down his spine. Who was that man? His voice easily shifted from the threatening to the compelling, from the rough to the velvety in a matter of seconds. Nevertheless John didn't feel really frightened by him, more disgusted actually. That sensation of disgust made grow inside of him the idea of not saying a single word of his acquaintance with Sherlock. He thus challenged back.

"Who are you?", asked John abruptly.

"An interested party.", replied calmly the man.

"Who are you?", John repeated "What's your name and what do you want from me? Now!"

"Threatening me doesn't work either, doctor Watson. As for who I am…", he stopped for a second looking up to the ceiling "…you may say I'm the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock has."

"And that would be?", pressed John.

"If you ask him, I'm sure he'll say I'm an enemy. His archenemy."

John frowned at the declaration, which seemed rather dramatic.

"And your name would be?", John urged once again.

"My name is not important, doctor Watson. Although, I suppose, you may find it out soon."

The man with the umbrella stopped one more time before speaking again.

"What I want from you? _Information_."

"What kind of _information_?"

"Information about Sherlock Holmes. Wasn't that obvious?", he stated "I've heard that you're looking for a new flat. I might be able to provide you with one and…even pay you an adequate sum of money for that…_information_."

"So, to be clear, _you_ are basically asking _me_ to _spy_ on Sherlock Holmes."

"Spy? No, doctor Watson. I'd never ask you that. I'm just asking to keep an eye on him and keep me informed. I promise you will be well rewarded."

"No, thanks.", was John's dry answer.

And he really didn't have anything else to say. Whatever that man was offering him he wasn't going to spy on Sherlock .

"Loyalty.", the man stretched the syllables "I admire that. But, doctor Watson, you might want to think about it overnight. Think about the side you're on. Think if it's convenient. Think if it's _wise_."

"I'm quite sure", John replied firmly "that I've already stated my negative answer and I don't think I'm going to change my mind tonight."

"We'll see, doctor Watson, we'll see."

And he walked away, swirling his umbrella. Then turned again to John.

"By the way, how's your shoulder?, he asked "The other night must have been hard for you sleeping on the chair. I hope it doesn't bother you that much."

And he smiled a bleak smile and definitively left. The man in grey drove John home.

As he stepped out of the car, he sighed in relief. It wasn't raining anymore and he had still to do the shopping, but he couldn't be bothered right now. He simply returned to his flat and collapsed on his armchair, thanking his legs and his mind for having held him up till now. Everything his mind saw was the man with the umbrella and his menacing, subtle words. He knew about John and Sherlock. He knew about the night Sherlock had spent in his flat. Nobody could have possibly known about that. Nobody. Yet that man knew. How that was possible, John didn't really have the slightest idea. A tired and forced smile appeared on his lips. Sherlock Holmes had surely a great enemy and John felt once again the heavy weight of not knowing anything certain about that young man. What had he done to have such an enemy? What was he still hiding under his unfathomable mask?

He took his mobile one more time, questioning whether he had to warn Sherlock about his meeting or not. The man hadn't actually threatened Sherlock in any way. In the end John thought that he didn't want to worry the young man with a rather futile text, hence he decided to speak directly to him.

He spent the rest of the day at home, eating a Chinese takeaway at midday and a pizza for dinner. He didn't do anything else, except thinking about the whole question over and over again, until, at nine o'clock p.m., exhausted, crawled to bed and fell asleep in a matter of seconds.

The next morning he saw Sherlock during his usual Monday morning lesson. He felt relieved. Despite his resolutions, actually, he was feeling a little guilty for not having called or texted him to know if everything was alright. But the fact that he was there surely meant that the wound was healing well and that the man with the umbrella hadn't killed/wounded/tortured him in any way. For one second their eyes met and John could've sworn that the young man had just smiled at him. Yet, as soon as he blinked, there was no sign of a smile on Sherlock's face anymore, so that John thought that he might have imagined it.

He wanted to warn him about the encounter with the umbrella man just after the lesson, but as soon as it ended, Sherlock had already vanished.


	10. Past Returning

It always rained in November London as far as John remembered and that November was no exception. It was a cold freezing rain and he cursed himself for having forgotten his umbrella at home. He needed to do some shopping and he hadn't got the time to go back and take it. He thus walked under the rain, trying to get the most heat possible by wrapping himself in his leather jacket. By the time he had reached the supermarket he was cold and wet. The heating of the shop welcomed him as a deep warm hug and he took off his jacket to let this warmth embrace his cold skin under his jumper. He needed to buy everything. Last time he had gone for shopping had been two weeks before and his fridge was literally crying because of its emptiness. But since he didn't want to stay out much, he didn't go to his usual shopping centre, which was quite far away, but decided to go to the nearest one, being it just fifteen minutes' walk from his flat.

As he walked under the grey sky, he realised how quickly November had come. The second week of it would've been two months since he had started to teach as a professor at the university. Two months since he first met Sherlock Holmes. With whom he hadn't talked since the 'flat accident'. The young man had always been attending the lessons, never missing one, but, as soon as they ended, he just disappeared for good. And, no matter how hard John tried, he couldn't retrace him. More than once he had tapped on his mobile, wanting to send Sherlock a message. But something had always stopped him. He didn't even know what it was. It just happened. He had to accept that he just couldn't send that goddamn message.

He walked through the vegetables section and picked up some zucchini and potatoes, then he bought biscuits, milk, meat, some packed frozen meals, a soup for the evening to come and went to pay. When he reached the check-out, he had the weird impression of being watched. He turned all around to check if there effectively was someone staring at him, but saw no one. God, after the meeting with the umbrella man he had become rather suspicious. Now _that was_ the understatement of the century. He had become hyper-suspicious. Given that the other man had known his night meeting with Sherlock Holmes, he had started to suspect that his house was being watched by don't-know-who. He had even changed his usual timetable to be certain no one was following him. After a very stressful week, which had also almost led to a quarrel with Laura, he had given up, blaming himself for his military trained mind. He was too used to be set on alarm mode and probably was just perceiving things that didn't exist, if not in his own mind. It was like when he had returned from Afghanistan: he had seen danger in every person he had met. It had taken him one month of daily psychotherapy to finally get over it. He sighed heavily in front of the check-out assistant who raised a questioning eyebrow. John shrugged his shoulders and paid in silence.

When he left the shop, the rain had stopped, but an ice-cold wind had already started to blow. Minutes later he had his fingertips of a worrying blue colour. He started to walk faster, first to reach his destination in lesser time, second to see if that helped him to warm a bit. It didn't work as he had wanted for the shopping bags were quite heavy and, three minutes later, he was panting hard trying to catch his breath. Five months of sedentary life had already made him lose his properly fit muscles. He huffed and a cloud of breath condensed in the icy air. Two runners passed by, giving him an amused look. He certainly was a funny sight at the moment. He was leaning on a wall, his hair messed up, his black jacket damp, sweat drops on his forehead due to the brisk walk and two big shop bags in his hands. He laughed hysterically, so that he became short of breath one more time. He had to wait a while to regain his composure and then started to walk again.

As he was approaching his flat, the sensation of being followed struck him one more time. He turned in every direction, but like it had happened at the supermarket, there was nobody watching him. He snorted. When he almost reached his flat's building, he noticed there was a figure standing near the front door. A very well-known figure. A figure that he had least expected to see there. A figure that he didn't want to meet at all.

For a fraction of second John thought about walking away, but his ex-wife Janine was already greeting him with her hand. God, no. He didn't want to see her, he had nothing to tell her and he didn't want to hear what she had to tell him. She was his past and he really didn't need that past anymore.

"Hello, John!", she said with her brightest smile, the one which used to send John to heaven and now only managed to make his fingers tickle with the desire of punching her right in the face.

"Why are you here?", was his cold answer.

He was rather astonished by her appearance in front of his flat, because he couldn't understand how she knew his address, before realising that every change of address was forwarded to her via lawyers.

"Aren't you happy to see me?", she said cheerfully.

"Not in the slightest.", John hissed.

"Really?", she asked pityingly.

"Did you _really_ think that I would've been happy to see you? After the hell you have put me through? Seriously, Janine?", he yelled in the middle of the road, not giving a fuck "Tell me what do you want and go away. As fast as you can, possibly."

Janine stayed still for a second.

"Aren't you going to invite me inside at least? It's freezing out here!", she tried to smile.

"No, I'm not going to invite you inside. Just tell me what do you want. Here. Now."

John was starting to get really annoyed.

"Well…I have been thinking about you a lot later and I was thinking if we could…try to go back together."

John gawked, astonished.

"Have you completely gone MAD?", he shouted "Do you _seriously_ think that I'm going back with you? You…what's that? Your last lover has left you and you are coming back to the old poor John, who's always so kind, so merciful?"

Had he not been John H. Watson, a man with the highest ethics, a man who would never ever have lain a finger on a woman, he would've strangled her right in that spot. Janine tried to answer.

"It's not like that, John.", she said in soft, caring voice "I know I have made some mistakes…"

"Some? _Some_? Are you even listening to what is coming out from your mouth?"

Now John was furious beyond any reasonable doubt. That woman had betrayed his trust not once, but a dozen of times. He had suffered and she hadn't done anything to help him. Never. And now she was asking him to rebuild a relationship with her? No way. No fucking way.

She was staring at him and tears seemed to fill his eyes. Oh, he knew she was the best fake weeper ever. She could just start to cry whenever she wanted to. John had already been fooled a good amount of times by that trick. He grunted.

"Don't do the 'I'm-in-tears-I'm-so-sorry-John' look, Janine. It doesn't work anymore with me. Go back to one of your old lovers and do that to him. Maybe it will work.", he remarked angrily, quite proud of the icy voice coming out of his throat.

"But…John…please…"

"No please. No. No anything. Nothing. Just go away and leave me alone."

And John started to unlock the front door, turning away from Janine. While he was shutting the door behind him to not see her anymore, she last screamed:

"Don't you love me anymore?"

"NO!", he shouted back.

And slammed the door with a loud bang and went upstairs to his flat. He entered the leaving room and leaned on the entrance door on his back, letting the plastic bags drop on the floor, dipping his nails into his palms to the point it started to hurt. He let out a series of furious huffs. Then turned to the door and hit it with a punch, making his knuckles bleed.

"Fuck!", he shouted.

That's what he really didn't need. He tried to focus back on his normal activities, like putting the shopping in its right place; but all he obtained was him throwing the things in the cupboards or in the fridge, with such a strength that a bottle of milk cracked and broke in the fridge. He huffed angrily. Why did it always happen to him? Why did she need to torment him like that? He had already made it clear that he didn't want to see her anymore a billion of times before. Not after what she had done to him, not after all those decisions that had made John go from 'I love you' to 'I loathe you' and 'I despise you' in less than three months. She wasn't a welcomed presence in John's life anymore. And now his head needed to be cleared. He collapsed on the chair, not even thinking about cleaning the floor, which was a mess of milk, fragments of glass and smashed potatoes. He stayed in that position motionless for a while, but the anger didn't go away.

He needed to drink. He badly needed a drink to forget all that. To forget a past he didn't want to brood over anymore. A past that he had thought it had been finally just a bad memory and yet it had reappeared. He stood up and stormed off, aimed to the pub. He didn't go to his usual one, though. He furiously walked for a long time, until his leg started to ache. As soon as he realised that they weren't going to hold him upright for any longer, he entered the first pub he found in the street. He didn't even know where he was. Good.

He literally threw himself on a chair at a table and called the waiter, who gave him an inquiring look. Certainly he was in a state that would've made everyone question his mind's sanity.

"A beer, please.", John asked.

"Which type?"

"A strong one."

The young waiter started to walk to the counter, but John stopped him. He needed something stronger than the beer.

"And rum, please.", he shouted.

The waiter nodded and came back with a pint of beer and a glass of rum. John immediately drank the rum in one single sip. It went right into his stomach, warming his body and easing his troubled mind. He asked for another seconds later, in the meanwhile he drank the beer.

A bunch of memories from his past started to re-emerge inside his brain. The first time he had met Janine, when he had just graduated and was looking for a job. Their happy strolls during the summer days. Their first holiday together. He hated every single bit of those memories. They meant nothing anymore. When he had decided to sign up as an army doctor, a while after they had married, she hadn't protested. She had accepted it. He had been happy about that. But then all had changed. Everything he had thought to have built up had crumbled down piece by piece. He had been sent to Afghanistan. She hadn't objected it. He had been surprised. She hadn't cried when he had left, like all the other soldiers' wives. He had been astonished. She had never said a 'miss you' in their calls. He had thought she was just different. Then, when he had come home on license after six month, he had discovered she had been cheating on him. Not once. Repeatedly. He had tried to rebuild their relationship, since he had felt responsible for it. It was him that had left her alone. Everything had gone back to normality. Then he had left again and, one year later, she had asked for divorce.

John still remembered the day of the call. She had smiled in front of the screen and told him her thoughts. She had been in love with someone else, simple as that. She prosecuted him to the court, obtaining all John's belongings, because she managed to demonstrate that, by going in Afghanistan, John had abandoned her on her own. That had been the last straw that broke the camel's back. John, who had desperately tried to make the things work again, had given up. She had used him. She had used him from the beginning. And he had believed her. What a fool he had been. She had just ruined his life and he had allowed it. It had taken him two years to get over it and now she was thinking that a 'sorry' would have sufficed. But John had promised himself: never again. Never again with that fucking woman.

For every painful, angry memory he drank a glass of rum. Two hours later he was so drunk that he couldn't almost recognise who he was. He was so smashed and wasted that when a man sat at his table, he didn't notice it for a while, even if he had him right in front of his eyes. When he did eventually notice it, he got angry.

"Piss off! This is my table!", he muttered disjointedly.

"Actually, it's the pub's table, not yours.", a voice calmly answered.

"Pfff. Shut up already, fag!", John replied, angrier.

But that voice sounded familiar. He was sure he had already heard it somewhere.

"You're completely drunk, _John_."

John tried to focus, despite a gallon of alcohol running through his veins, making it difficult for him to rationalise his thoughts. A dark blue coat. A blue scarf. Pale skin. Black curls. Snap. Sherlock.

"Sh-Sh-Sherlock!", he finally blabbed.

"Yes, _Sherlock_. That's my name. So you have still got your brain. Nice to know.", and he smirked at John "But I think it's time for you to leave this place. Come on!"

Sherlock approached and put his hands under John's armpit, lifting him up from the chair. John stumbled, but the young man kept him upright and started to push him outside the pub.

"I have to pay!", John shouted.

"I've paid for you.", huffed Sherlock in annoyance "Now just shut up, you're making a fool of yourself."

John didn't quite understand what was happening. There was Sherlock, hands on his shoulder blades, pushing him; the same Sherlock who was his student, the same Sherlock he had no idea about how he could be there right in the pub where John had been drowning his brain in alcohol. The brisk chilly November wind hit John as soon as he stepped out of the warm place. It cleared his mind a little, but not completely. He was feeling the precise symptoms of drunkenness. His head was dizzy and his sight was blurry. He didn't know where to put his steps and was having a hard time standing still either. Sherlock held him up. If it hadn't been for him, John would have dropped on the pavement in no time.

"Come on, doctor Watson, you can do it!", he urged.

And they started to walk. Now Sherlock, to help him walk, had took him by the arm and they were side by side. Somehow his brain recognised that it was surely an odd image to see: a drunken (quite) old man, being carried home by a younger boy, who seemed completely at ease in the role he had taken up. John giggled aloud. Sherlock looked at him puzzled.

"What's that?", he enquired.

"It looks like you're taking care of me.", John laughed louder.

"I am taking care of you.", stated the young man.

John stopped laughing abruptly and let Sherlock guide him. But soon he noticed that they weren't going to John's flat.

"Where are we going?", he managed to say after three minutes of thinking.

"Home."

"Wrong road, then.", and he started to laugh again.

"I'm taking you to _my_ place. It's nearer. And I don't trust you enough at the moment to leave you alone in your flat."

John gawked and opened his mouth in surprise. Somewhere amidst the state of inebriation his brain was still working.

"Sorry, what?"

"You can't stay alone this wasted. You may choke on your own vomit. And I'd rather avoid that."

John didn't say anything anymore. On one hand because he didn't know what to say, on the other because Sherlock was right. Nevertheless the whole situation was, one more time, highly inappropriate. A student was bringing him to his house. A student. Sherlock. Whatever. A student. He was still a student. And he was his drunk professor. Oh god, that was so wrong.

They reached Sherlock's flat ten minutes, and a lot of steps, later. John's logic woke up.

"What about your parents? Wouldn't it be…awkward?"

It wasn't really the question he had formulated in his mind, but it seemed that his brain cells weren't so eager to cooperate with his body.

"I live alone.", Sherlock dryly answered.

"I suspected that.", John found himself answering.

"Good to know that your brain isn't dead yet.", smirked the young man.

Then he literally pulled John upstairs and into the bathroom, opened the tap of the sink and pushed John's head under it. All John felt was the coldness of the water on his head, which cleared his thoughts a bit more. Yet he was still far away from being even near the idea of sobriety. He could hold himself up alone, but he couldn't quite understand the entirety of what was happening around him. Sherlock threw a towel to him.

"Dry yourself off."

John did as he was told, not without some difficulties, for the towel seemed to be alive under his shaking hands. He laughed one more time. Sherlock huffed and helped him in that activity too.

"It'd be better if you sit for a while, before falling asleep.", the young man remarked and guided John to the living room.

John felt like his head was in a fishbowl. Drops of water were running down his neck from his hair and he tried to focus on them to remember himself he had to regain his composure. He managed to reach an armchair in the middle of the room and collapsed on it, his legs not able to hold him up anymore. He closed his eyes, since headache was striking in too. Sherlock went to the kitchen and brought John a glass of water with an aspirin, then sat on the sofa in front of him. John took the medicine.

"You have questions.", the young man said seconds later "I can read it on your face. Ask, then."

John gawked, shocked. Was Sherlock really giving him permission to ask some questions? Obviously his face showed those thoughts too, because the young man spoke again.

"Yes, you can ask me questions. First it'll help you stay awake, second it'll help me stay awake, third you probably won't remember much tomorrow. Ask."

John swallowed, while his brain seemed to dance in his skull. And he couldn't understand whether it was the alcohol or Sherlock's willingness to answer his questions. He had millions. And his brain wasn't cooperating.

"How did you know I was in that pub?", he eventually managed to say.

"I have been following you since this morning."

"Wh…following me? Why?"

"I was bored. That's all."

John elaborated the thought in his brain. It was highly, terribly highly inappropriate, but in the state he was in, he found it laughable. He laughed aloud, mainly because he had the confirmation that he hadn't imagined things.

"So…you followed me because you were bored."

"Yes."

"Okay."

John accepted it serenely, like it was the most normal thing in the whole universe. Then asked the second question.

"How's your…", and he pointed to Sherlock's chest.

"Strange for you to ask."

John knew he hadn't asked him about his wound for three weeks, but Sherlock had literally vanished and he hadn't seen him if not during the lessons, after which the young man had disappeared for good.

"You disappeared.", John replied.

"You did too.", was the irritated answer.

"What?", John frowned.

"You didn't even send me a message, despite having my number. I thought you didn't care and didn't want to talk about it anymore."

John felt his cheeks going red and swallowed hard. Sherlock was right once more. The young man opened the buttons of his shirt and John, despite his blurry sight, clearly saw a bright pink scar where his stitches have been.

"I removed them by myself, if you were wondering.", Sherlock said flatly.

John nodded.

"How old are you?", the question slipped out from John's mouth before he could even realise it.

Damn the drunkenness, he cursed mentally. How it even came to his mind, John really couldn't guess. Yet the young man in front of him seemed rather impressed by it.

"Twenty-seven."

John's brain, which was already massively damaged by the alcohol, stopped working.

"Sorry, what?", he blabbed unintelligibly "That's…impossible!"

"I'm certain of it."

"And how…?"

John was about to ask how it was possible that Sherlock was only at his second year of university, already knowing how bright, clever, brilliant he was. Obviously Sherlock understood the question before John could complete it.

"I was in rehab until four years ago. I enrolled at university one year later. Satisfied?", he answered coldly.

John had to stop and think. Rehab. Had Sherlock just said that word or was it the rum working?

"Don't do that, John."

"Do what?", John didn't understand.

"That face. Your face is clearly saying 'it's not possible, I must have got it wrong'. I assure you, you didn't. I'm not a saint or a hero, John."

"But…"

John didn't know what to say. Had he been sober, his mind would've helped him in that task. But his thoughts tangled together, making it impossible for him to form a coherent sentence. Yet he managed to say something. Not his best speech, but something.

"…you are clever! The cleverest, most brilliant, amazing person I've ever known in my whole life! I can't imagine…how?"

"It's not a question I'd like to answer right now.", the young man replied "It's not a topic I'm at ease with. Like you aren't willing to talk about your ex-wife with anyone, even with your supposed girlfriend. The past is the past."

John gulped. Sherlock looked at him, aquamarine eyes under black long eyelashes fixing him, cold eyes. Freezing cold eyes. John felt helpless under that gaze and understood that the time for questions had ended. Plus his eyelids were becoming heavier and heavier, until he couldn't keep his eyes open anymore. He fell asleep.

When he woke up he was lying on a sofa. His head was hurting so much that it looked like it on the verge of exploding. He had a vague reminiscence of what had happened the previous day, but it took him all his strengths to understand where he was. Sherlock's flat. He was in Sherlock's flat. And, like it had happened weeks before, Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. On the coffee table next to the sofa there were a glass of water and another aspirin. He stretched his arm to reach it. As he did that, his mobile buzzed inside his trousers. He took it out and read the message, despite his still blurry sight.

_I've gone out, so you don't have to be embarrassed in front of me.  
Take the water and the aspirin.  
I've left the doors open, so you can leave when you want.  
And don't worry, I'm not going to talk about it to anyone. –SH._

John read and smiled. This time he quickly tapped the answer on his mobile. And sent it soon after.

_Thank you, Sherlock.  
John._

He took the aspirin, drank the water and left.


	11. It's Always The Danger

It was only when he eventually got home that what had happened the previous night struck him.

At first it was shame. Shame for he had drunk so much that he had almost forgot about himself. Shame for a student of his had seen him in that dreadful state. Shame for the student was no one else but Sherlock Holmes. Shame for the young man had taken care of him. Shame for another boundary had been broken. He had been in his student's flat. At night. Drunk. Where the hell did he have his head?

Then it was repentance. And repentance was worse than shame. He shouldn't have allowed Sherlock to help him at the pub. He shouldn't have allowed the young man to guide him to his flat. He shouldn't have allowed anything of it. And he had. And he had asked Sherlock questions that shouldn't have ever been asked. Not to anyone so lightly. Not to anyone. Mainly not to the man called Sherlock Holmes.

Then it was a sweet sensation. And that was the worst of all. The sensation that Sherlock had helped him, guided him, protected him was almost unbearable. It was making him feel full and empty at the same time, happy and sad, alive and dead.

Plus, Sherlock had voluntarily answered his question, almost spontaneously. Like he was trying to help John forget what it had happened the previous afternoon. Like he knew that John had desperately needed to be distracted. And thanks to Sherlock's willingness to answer those question, John had completely forgotten his torment. Had the young man done it on purpose? That was surely a question that would have never had an answer.

John shook his head: he felt like he had the whole world on his shoulders. Yet the thought of him arm in arm with Sherlock made him smile once again. He tried to remember his scent but, to his extreme disappointment, he couldn't. He was sure it was a bittersweet one, like the man himself. Highly inappropriate thought, but, after all, he had a hangover. He could blame himself later for it.

And he did. When the afternoon came, he mentally spanked himself for having thought such things, for having indulged in them, for having sent that goddamn message. Alcohol. He promised himself that he would have never ever drunk that much again.

He stormed off his flat at three o'clock, needing some time to clear his thoughts. He aimed directly to Hyde Park and strolled for a while along the Serpentine. It was a cloudy Sunday, it didn't rain but it was as windy as the night before. Memories of his drunk conversation with Sherlock slipping out every few steps. His first questions had been coherent, normal ones. But the last ones. John would've never forgiven himself for that. Rehab. Every time that word came to his mind, he couldn't quite believe that it had been Sherlock who had pronounced it. He sighed. He felt so sorry for having asked those questions, even if the young man hadn't minded, John did. Stupid, stupid, stupid John. Maybe, now, Sherlock was feeling bad, for it wasn't really a subject he had wanted to talk about. By now John was finally sure that the young man had answered them to keep John's head occupied, to keep him distant from the thoughts that had led him to drink that much.

Lost in his thoughts, he stumbled upon a man.

"I'm sorry!", he apologised.

"John!", the man answered in surprise "Why do we always have to meet here?"

It was DI Lestrade. John smiled.

"You are right, Greg! But I swear it's completely accidental!"

He raised his hands to the sky and they both laughed.

"How are you?", asked John politely.

"I've just had a very hard week at Scotland Yard, but I'm fine.", said the policeman "But, you know, my job is always like that. I can't complain that much. And you, how are you?"

John wondered whether telling Lestrade what had happened or not. At first he thought it would've been madness explaining him everything, then he remembered that the DI had known Sherlock for a long time. He would have listened, probably understood and, maybe, answered some of his doubts. He exhaled.

"I don't know.", John said "I sincerely don't know."

Lestrade gave him a curious look.

"What happened?"

"I don't even know where to start…"

"Want to sit down?"

"Yes. Better."

They sat on a bench and John gathered his thoughts, before finally starting his narration of the events.

"Yesterday I met my ex-wife. A person that I really didn't want to see and with whom I have no connection anymore. She…well, she isn't part of my life and I don't want her to be. I have…awful memories of her and I needed to clear my mind, so…"

"So you went for a drink.", interrupted Lestrade.

John nodded.

"Yes. I needed to forget. So I drank until my body couldn't feel the pain anymore. Then, while I was wasted in a pub, Sherlock arrived.", John sighed.

"What?", came the more than surprised answer of the DI.

"He sat beside me and helped me to get up. He guided me outside the place. He even paid for my drinks!"

"That is…", Lestrade tried to say, unable to find a proper word "…strange."

John looked at the man beside him.

"He doesn't usually do that, does he?"

"He never does that.", the DI mumbled.

John went on.

"Then he brought me home. Not my place. His."

The look on Lestrade's face said it all.

"I get that he has never done such a thing before either, right?"

Greg nodded, but said nothing, as if he was waiting to collect more data before expressing his idea.

"Then I asked him some questions about his own life and he answered me."

At this last piece of information, Lestrade literally gulped.

"I don't know what to say.", the DI eventually spoke "It looks like he took care of you."

"My exact thought."

"But…he's Sherlock. He doesn't do such things. He even refuses the slightest help, even when he needs it badly."

"Like with the shoulder."

Lestrade obviously knew what John was talking about.

"Yes, yes. I tried to persuade him back then. 'Go to the hospital, Sherlock', I said. And he refused over and over again. After ten minutes of quarrelling he asked to be brought to you, and gave me your address. I had to give up."

John listened in silence.

"And he doesn't like people. He doesn't want them around. But with you he's…different. Since he had let you come to the crime scene, I thought about it. Then there was the aforementioned 'shoulder affair'. Now this. He acts differently with you."

"Why?"

"God help me if I knew, John. Sherlock is a mystery. He just does things. I suppose there's a reason nonetheless. Just: we can't find it out, am I right?"

John nodded. The two men stayed in silence for a while, each of them lost in his own thoughts. Then John spoke again:

"He told me about the rehab."

"Did he?", the DI gawked.

"Yes. It came out because I was fool. I asked him how old was he and this came out. I didn't want…I didn't know…"

"Now you do.", and Lestrade looked at him "You can't quite believe it, uh?"

John shook his head.

"Has he told you anything else about it?"

"No. I saw it was an uncomfortable thought for him. I'm so sorry for having brought it out. He had been so kind and I…"

"Don't worry.", smiled Lestrade "He let you in his life more than anyone else before. I guess he doesn't bother him that much having told you that."

John felt a bit relieved by those words.

"It's all so wrong, Greg. Everything."

"Nothing with Sherlock it's right or wrong. It just happens. Don't brood over it too much. It's Sherlock. And you have to accept it or refuse it. And I have rather the idea that you're accepting it.", Lestrade smiled.

John thought he was right. So right. Even if everything was so wrong, it was so right at the same time. And he had to accept it. And he was ready to accept it. He thanked the DI, Greg decided to give John his phone number in case of emergency and they parted. Just, no matter how many efforts, John couldn't just shut his thoughts, nor he could let all his questions go.

* * *

The next Friday evening he was getting dressed for another date with Laura. They had gone out other two times after the meeting at Regent's Park and John was sure they were starting to build a serious relationship. She was everything John needed. She was smart, clever, cheerful, beautiful and John liked her very much. Their relationship, in John's opinion, had all the premises to be a lasting one.

The week had also passed quietly, without any problems of any sort. Sherlock had still attended the lessons and John had been rather relieved of that, because it was the sign that the young man didn't really mind that much about what had happened. He hadn't send messages to John either. Neither he had wanted to talk with John. So everything was back to normality. Good. In addition, no one knew about John's 'accident' among his colleagues, meaning that Sherlock hadn't said a word as he had promised. Yet John had felt quite uncomfortable at first, but the sensation had slowly faded away and finally disappeared.

And now he had another date with Laura. He put on his new trousers, new shirt and new jacket he had bought to impress her and went out. The had previously decided to go to Cecconi's, near Regent Street, because Laura had read an article about it and wanted to try it out. John had gladly consented and now they were about to meet in front of it.

Luckily enough the weather was good one more time. It was surely cold, it being almost mid-November, but the sky hadn't got any clouds and there was no chilly wind. At eight o'clock John was waiting for her.

She arrived three minutes later. Laura had always been impeccable in her clothes, but that evening she was beyond incredible and, although John had bought purposely new clothes to not cut a poor figure by her side, he felt so little compared to her beauty. She was wearing a tight-length white knitted dress that fitted her perfectly. She was so simple and yet so elegant that John found his mouth to have gone cotton dry at the sight.

He complimented her during the whole path to their table and kept on complimenting her until the menu arrived. They both ordered Tagliolini, clams & bottarga and Grilled cod & sarmoriglio with a glass of Conte della Vipera, an Italian white wine.

They talked about what was happening at the university, about London's news, about themselves. As the first course arrived, John felt his mobile buzz in his trousers. He ignored it. Whatever or whoever it was it could wait. Five minutes later it buzzed again. So it did ten minutes later. Thirty minutes later they had almost finished eating their main course and were talking about which dessert to choose, when someone approached their table. It took John two seconds to understand who he was and he almost choked on the morsel he was biting. Sherlock. Damn.

When the young man finally reached the table, John didn't know whether to run away or to bury himself under the floor. He panicked, but stayed still, like nothing strange was happening. Laura saw the student only when he arrived beside her.

"Mr. Holmes?", was her more than puzzled expression.

"Good evening, professor… Collins.", he said kindly, before turning to John "John."

John was about to die. He was sure of that. His heart had stopped. It had stopped for certain.

"You didn't answer my messages. I need you."

"Mr. Holmes,", he tried to say, sounding less than convincing "what are you doing here?"

Sherlock huffed.

"I need your help on a case, John. I sent you five messages and you didn't answer me, so I came here looking for you."

How Sherlock could know where he was having dinner was, beyond any doubt, an useless question. But he was calling him 'John' in front of Laura, like it was normal. He felt his cheeks turn red.

"I'm on a date, Sherlock!", he found himself answering, forgetting the 'I'm the professor, I shouldn't call him by his first name, especially in front of a colleague' part.

"Obviously you are on a date! I can see it by the location you've chosen, by the fact that your clothes say 'I want this to end in bed'…"

John become instantly redder than ever. Sherlock went on.

"…by the fact that professor Collins is here with you, by the fact that you two are enjoying each other's company, by the fact that she's also in a 'I want this to end in bed' dress, although she's still not completely over her ex-boyfriend."

"What?", Laura gawked, astonished.

But Sherlock didn't listen to her.

"As you may note, I know you are on a _date_."

"And doesn't it say anything to you?", John tentatively asked, already sensing defeat.

"It tells me that is very rude indeed to not answer my messages. We've got a case."

At those words, John's body thrilled in response, like Sherlock had pressed some unknown button.

"I'm on a date!", he shouted, sounding less and less convincing.

"And I need you for a case. Lestrade texted me forty minutes ago and it seems rather interesting. I need _your help_."

John looked at Laura, who was just sitting there, mouth open in a complete daze. Then looked back at Sherlock.

"I'll be waiting for you outside. Could be dangerous, though.", Sherlock concluded walking towards the exit.

It was all John needed. He noticed he had already started to grab his coat. Laura was looking at him now, bewildered and furious.

"What is happening, John?", she asked angrily "Aren't you going with him, are you?"

John would've loved to say he was sorry, but his vocal cords didn't cooperate with his brain. And, actually, he didn't even know what to say. He stayed silent as he put on his coat, still looking at the woman.

"John!", she yelled at him "He's a student! Whatever is happening, he is a student!"

The whole restaurant was looking at them, but John didn't care. John knew he was a student. He knew that too well. He had repeated it to himself not once, not twice, but a dozen billion of times. Yet the idea of a case, the well-known smell of danger was stronger than everything else.

"People will talk, John!", she continued "You might even lose your job!"

True that too. Somewhere in his brain, there was still a part functioning correctly, unaffected by the 'dangerous' word, and he stopped for a second, hesitant. Laura seemed already to taste victory, because she was starting to smile again. But John caught a glimpse of Sherlock's silhouette through the restaurant's window and the adrenaline definitively obfuscated every reasonable thought. He needed it. He needed it badly.

"Sorry, Laura.", he finally managed to mutter "I have to go."

And he put on his scarf.

"John!", she shouted one last time.

But John didn't almost hear that as he was already outside the place, by Sherlock's side.

"What have we got?", he asked the young man impatiently.

"Lestrade will give us all the details as soon as we reach him. Anyway it's a double murder.", he replied.

John's body completely filled with adrenaline in less than a second.

"I knew it.", said Sherlock out of the blue.

"Knew what?"

"The danger, John. It's always the danger.", and he smirked subtly at him.

John giggled. It was so true. Sherlock hailed a taxi and they got into it.

During the ride, John thought about the restaurant and realised he hadn't paid the bill.

"Don't worry."

John stared at Sherlock.

"I've paid it. You owe me a nice sum of money now.", and grinned.

"What did you mean by saying she is not over her ex-boyfriend?", John inquired, perplexed all of a sudden by Sherlock's previous affirmation.

"I meant what I meant. She's interested in you, but she's still keeping the necklace he gave to her. Does it bother you?"

And it should've bothered John. But, as always, a stronger impulse answered:

"Not at all. Not at all."

And they smiled at each other as the taxi moved to their final destination.


	12. The Case of The Two Dead Men

When they had almost reached their destination, John remembered all of a sudden that he hadn't warned Sherlock about the man with the umbrella yet.

"Sherlock…"

"Mmmm?", answered the young man, quite distracted.

"A while ago, a month ago to be precise, I…met a man. Well, 'met' it's rather incorrect."

Sherlock gave him a puzzled look.

"He sort of kidnapped me. Rather incorrect term too. Oh, well. I met him."

"And who was he?"

"He knew you. He said that he is an enemy of yours."

"Which one?"

John cleared his throat.

"Archenemy."

"Oh, him.", answered Sherlock completely unimpressed by the revelation.

"Do you know who he is, then?", was John's confused question.

"Yes, I do."

"And?"

"He's the most dangerous man you'll probably ever meet. But he's not my problem right now."

John's mouth fell open in a complete dazed expression.

"But…you could be in danger!", John remarked.

Sherlock simply grinned. John didn't understand and went on.

"He wanted me to spy on you."

"For an adequate sum of money, I bet. Did you accept it?"

"Of course I didn't!"

"You should have."

John was speechless, completely at loss with himself.

"So you could pay your own bills and you shouldn't always count on me for that.", the young man stated in a wider grin.

John stared at Sherlock, mouth open in astonishment, then started to laugh. It was such a carefree laugh that he almost felt overwhelmed by the sensation of it mixed with the adrenaline pumping in his blood. For the umpteenth time John thought that Sherlock was impossible. The most impossible genius, the only one impossible genius he had ever met and the only one he would have ever probably met in his whole life.

As they approached to their destination, John noticed they were aimed to Whitechapel. Twenty-five minutes later since they had left the restaurant, they got off in front of an abandoned shop. Lestrade was waiting for them just outside.

"At last! I thought you got lost!", the DI said to Sherlock.

"It's his fault.", the young man answered pointing at John "Had he not been so stubborn, I would've been here ages ago."

John was about to answer something, but let it drop, knowing it was a futile argument in that occasion.

"What have we got, Lestrade?"

"Double murder, as I texted you.", the DI said as he guided them inside the building "Two males. Discovered three hours ago by the shop's owner. He declared that the shop has been closed for three months. He came here today because a possible buyer phoned and told him he wanted to see the place tomorrow, so he wanted to check if everything were alright. And he found…that."

On the empty floor, amid the empty shelves of the shop, there were the naked bodies of two males lying on their backs. At a first glance, and at a first smell even, John noticed that one of the two bodies must have been lying there for at least one week. It was showing all the signs of the first stages of decomposition: the bloat, the blisters on the skin, the harsh smell of body fluids. As a doctor and as a soldier he was unaffected by it, but he thought that Sherlock would've been. Wrong again. Sherlock was looking at the corpses _fascinated_.

"What can you tell me, doctor Watson?", he inquired.

"The left one has been here for at least one week.", John answered as he approached to the bodies "The right one has been dead for…", and he stared at it "…probably twelve hours, by looking at his state. He's showing all the stages of rigor mortis and lividity, but no signs of decomposition or greenish skin colour yet. So yes, I'd say twelve, maximum eighteen hours."

"Cause of death?", the young man urged.

"Let me take a closer look..."

John knelt near the fresher victim. He looked at the head, at the chest, at the legs.

"Can I turn him? I need to take a look at his back.", he asked Lestrade, who nodded.

As he lifted the body up, he clearly saw what had killed the man. There was the evident sign of a stabbing wound just beneath his left shoulder blade, probably deep enough to have reached the heart.

"Stabbed.", John concluded "One single, very precise stab through the heart. They haven't been killed here, though. There's almost no blood on the floor."

Sherlock nodded and started his personal examination of the bodies. Like the first time, the young man moved around the corpses, focusing his attention on the right one, touched, smelt. Two minutes later he stood up.

"It will take me ages to identify them!", grunted Lestrade at some point "They are both naked and they present no recognisable characteristics. Hundreds of people go missing in London every day and they could be everyone!"

John had to admit the DI was right, it would have been a very long research.

"I wouldn't say so.", answered Sherlock.

John and Lestrade turned to the young man at the same time, both with an astonished expression on their faces.

"Ok,", said the policeman "give me, Sherlock!"

"We can narrow down the research to the City."

"Sherlock if you're making this up, I swear I'll kill you!"

Sherlock grunted in annoyance.

"Look at him! Don't you see?"

John and Lestrade still looked at each other like completely puzzled.

"First: the hair. Perfectly trimmed. By the millimetre."

"He could just be obsessed with his physical aspect.", replied the DI.

"No, no. This is a person who went to the barber once or twice a week. And look at his hands: manicured. So office work, but with a lot of customers. He didn't do this because he liked it, he did that because his appearance is his greeting card. It attracted customers. He's probably a partner of an investment society."

"That's all?"

"Obviously not. See the mark on his left wrist?"

John noticed it as soon as Sherlock pointed at it. On it there was an almost unnoticeable mark of a wristwatch.

"It's a mark left by a Panerai Luminor. They are very particular watches with a very big circular clock face. The only one which could have left that specific mark. They aren't common watches for an Englishman, so this suggests that our John Doe has got at least some connections with Swiss societies, hence the choice of a Swiss watch. Panerai are also very expensive, so he isn't an employee, he's the boss."

John looked at the young man, more and more intrigued by his brilliant mind.

"And there's the aftershave too."

"Aftershave?", asked John and Lestrade simultaneously.

"Yes, aftershave. Can't you smell it?"

"Among the miasma of a body in putrefaction?", replied Lestrade "Not really."

And John had to agree once more. He couldn't smell anything else except the harsh stink, but apparently Sherlock could.

"How could you? That's the right question!", continued the DI, addressing to Sherlock.

"I always recognise a Clive Christian 1872.", answered the young man "Every bit of this man, every bit of that smell says 'City' out loud."

"Fantastic!", John couldn't hold it anymore.

Sherlock turned to him with a perplexed look.

"Are you really keeping on saying that?", asked Sherlock.

"Sorry,", John felt quite embarrassed "ahem, I'll just shut up."

"No, it's…fine."

Lestrade interrupted their slightly odd conversation.

"So we are basically looking for a person who has been missing from the City for twelve hours."

"Correct."

"What about the other?"

Sherlock huffed in annoyance.

"It's too decomposed. But I have the idea that he's from the City too. And we're looking for a female killer."

"Female?", this time John had literally no words to describe the surprised expression on Lestrade's face "A stab like that would suggest a male, Sherlock!"

"Statistically more probable, Lestrade. But males tend to stab their opponent by fixing them in the eyes, as in a game of dominance. A stab in the back? More likely a female. Plus they are both naked, this would suggest some intimacy between the victims and the supposed woman. Plus this one is literally soaked in the aftershave, which suggests a romantic date. And it also confirms my theory about the left man working in the City. Same killer rather indicates a connection between the two."

Lestrade made a phone call and waited.

"They are sending me pictures of missing workers of the City during the last week."

When the DI finally got them, they all started to look at the screen. There were ten people gone missing in the last week. Sherlock looked at the first, second and third saying 'no, no, no', stopped at the fourth for ten seconds, but said 'no' once again. The same happened with the fifth and the sixth, but at the seventh picture he shouted:

"It's him!"

Once again John and Lestrade looked puzzled.

"No, Sherlock it isn't him.", said John quite perplexed "This man doesn't look like the one we have there."

And he pointed at the right corpse.

"He isn't the body on the right. He's the left one."

John gawked.

"The height and the weight. They correspond to those of the body. Plus he's gone missing exactly one week ago. The police thought it was a voluntary escape. I think they were wrong. The body over there is this man's. Look! There's a note under the photo!"

Lestrade clicked on the note.

"It's an alert.", he said "Someone has just reported another missing person related to him. It's his business partner."

The DI opened the photo. He was their second body.

John spent the night at Scotland Yard with Sherlock skimming through files and mumbling the whole time. When morning came he had the most precise idea of how the crimes were committed and who was the killer.

Sherlock explained John and Lestrade that five years earlier four friends had founded an investment society. Each of them had put in it a good part of the capital and the society had soon started to flourish. Despite that, three of the associates had begun to cheat and transfer some of the society's earnings in a Swiss bank. The fourth partner had discovered it and had threatened them to go to the police and confess everything. The three associates hadn't panicked and had simply thrown the man out of their society, making him lose all his money and causing his following suicide three months earlier. The man had a wife who loved him deeply and who, to Sherlock's deduction, was now taking her revenge over his husband's partners. She had already killed two, she was surely waiting for the third. Sherlock deduced that she would've done it soon, because she knew that the two men's bodies would've been probably found and she wouldn't risk her third target to suspect something.

"The problem is", concluded the young man "that we don't have a single proof against her. She's been very careful. Very, very careful."

"What do you suggest, Sherlock?", inquired the DI.

"First, don't let anyone know that the second man is missing. She'll feel safer and probably will strike soon. Second, me and John are going to follow her around. Maybe she'll make a false step. Let's go, John!"

John knew he should have said no. Yet he said nothing and followed Sherlock around London, following the murderous widow, the Black Widow, as John had named her.

They spent the whole Saturday and the first part of the Sunday on her heels, until Sherlock realised that she was going to strike that evening.

"She went to the hairdresser and bought new clothes. There's a party which our man should attend to. She's going to seduce him tonight, John!", the young man claimed at one point "She knows no one had found the corpses, but she knows they'll be found soon. She has decided for it to be tonight!"

"So we just have to wait her to bring the man back home."

"His house. She doesn't want her house to be contaminated by the men who have killed her husband. And they were too stupid to understand what she was going to do. Damn, she's good!"

"Sherlock!", John yelled at him.

"What's that?"

"God, she's a murderer and you are saying she's good?"

"Not good?"

"Really not good.", John snorted.

But the young man was right about her striking that night. At eleven p.m. she had managed to seduce the third partner of her dead husband. He brought her home and, as soon as the man was naked on the bed, she had extracted a dagger she was hiding in her stilettoes. John had to admit that Sherlock had been right even about the other point: she was good. Nevertheless, thanks to Sherlock Holmes, Lestrade took her in custody with the charge of a double and one attempted homicide.

As soon as they exited the man's flat, John noticed a figure in the distance. It took him two seconds to realise it was the man with the umbrella.

"Sherlock…"

The young man didn't seem to have heard him.

"Sherlock…", he repeated "That's him!"

"Him who?", eventually answered the young man.

"The man with the umbrella! The archenemy!"

Sherlock huffed in annoyance, as the other man approached.

"Another case solved, Sherlock.", the man said "Good for you."

"Hello, brother.", answered Sherlock heavily annoyed.

John's jaw fell on the floor.

"B-brother?"

"Yes.", replied Sherlock quietly "He's my brother Mycroft."

"Doctor Watson. I quite expected to find you here.", Mycroft replied with a smirk.

"Brother?", repeated John who was finding it hard to think "He is your _brother_?"

"Yes.", replied Sherlock one more time.

"Not a criminal mastermind? Not dangerous?", John was incredulous.

"He's worse than that.", the young man stated.

"Oh for god's sake, Sherlock! I occupy a minor position in the British Government."

"He is the British Government. And the most dangerous man you'll ever meet, John. And as I previously stated: not my problem right now.", the young man hissed and started to walk away.

John looked at him agape, unable to form a coherent thought.

"See you soon, Sherlock.", the man called Mycroft greeted.

"I hope not.", was the young man's dry answer.

Sherlock then followed the DI to Scotland Yard, but John, despite everything, desperately needed to sleep. He hadn't slept on Friday night, because he had been busy skimming through the two men's lives, and he hadn't slept on Saturday night, because they had been busy guarding the woman.

Now at one a.m. on Monday he was literally dying of exhaustion. And he had even lesson the following morning. He crawled home and into bed.

When he woke up at seven, it seemed to him that he hadn't slept a single second. He crawled to the university, already knowing it would have been an awful day, but blissfully unaware of what was going to happen. As soon as he entered his office with the biggest cup of coffee he had managed to find to keep him awake, he noticed there was Laura sitting at his desk.

Oh god, no. He didn't want to have any conversation that morning, let alone _that _conversation.

"John, we need to talk.", she remarked coldly.

John gave her a disinterested look.

"What did you do with Holmes? What case was he talking about?"

John was well aware that the conversation would have led nowhere. He didn't even think about lying this time. He went straight for the truth, hoping that Laura would have understood his point of view.

"Nothing inconvenient, Laura. He solves crimes for the police and I sometimes help him. Isn't it fantastic?", John let slip out, quite thrilled, the adrenaline still not completely vanished.

"Fantastic? It's not fantastic, John! It's sick! He's sick, he's insane!", she yelled "How could you even think of it being fantastic?"

"You don't know him at all, Laura. He's not insane! He's clever! He's amazing!"

"You're right. I don't know him at all.", she remarked quietly, but coldly "No one here really knows him. He finds it difficult even to remember the professors' names after three years! And yet he calls you 'John' and you call him 'Sherlock'!"

John felt the anger growing inside him. He knew that he shouldn't call the young man 'Sherlock', but he found that he didn't care much anymore, especially in that precise moment.

"It's not easy to stick with 'Mr. Holmes' all the time when you go around with him!", he shouted "And he…he's him! You can't expect him to behave normally! It's just that, I swear!"

"He's a bloody student, John! A student who happens to call you by your first name! It's not normal!", she shouted louder "And you even expect me to believe the 'I solve crimes with him' story? Seriously?"

"But it's the fucking truth, Laura! There's nothing else!"

"A student, John! A student! He's even got your phone number! Your bloody phone number!"

"Yes, he has! I don't know how but he has!"

And obviously it was the truth, thought John. But Laura had another opinion.

"A student with _your _phone number! A student who calls you '_John_'! That's a thing I least expected from you!"

There was no point in that discussion. She didn't believe him and John couldn't accept that she was insulting the young man of whom she knew nothing at all. John's fury came out like a roaring cascade.

"Like I least expected you to be still in love with your ex!", he shouted.

"But it's not true!"

"Excuse me if I find it hard to believe that.", he smirked angrily.

"Is that because Holmes has told you that the other evening?", she spitted out.

"Yes, because of that.", he coldly replied.

"He's a bloody liar! Don't you see? It's just a lie!"

"I highly doubt it.", John answered firmly, before hitting his palm on the desk and shouting louder "He's _always _right! And if he said that, it's the bloody truth!"

Laura got up from the chair and gave John a furious look.

"I guess that's the end of it.", she hissed.

"I guess that too.", John simply replied as she slammed the door.

He hoped nobody had heard their quarrel. Luckily, at that hour, the corridor was completely empty. He collapsed on his chair, taking a sip of coffee.

He should've been sad. He should have felt something. Instead, he felt nothing. He tried to understand why. She was perfect, really. Caring, loving, passionate, clever, beautiful. She was everything a man would love to find in a woman. She was perfect.

That's when John eventually realised it. He didn't need someone perfect, he needed someone challenging. And for some odd reason the face of Sherlock Holmes appeared in his mind.


	13. Fragile

With the exception of the morning, the rest of the day passed almost unnoticed for John . He did his lesson with such low enthusiasm that, by the end of his first hour, half of the students were asleep and he too was finding it hard to keep himself awake. A very odd exception was Sherlock, who, instead of his usual passivity, was looking directly at him with a rather evident interest. Were that because of the case he had solved or because he was interested in 'studying' a sleepy professor, John didn't know. And he didn't know how he could be so attentive and _awake _either_,_ when he had slept less than John. He wondered whether he were a robot or something similar.

At two o' clock p.m. he needed to go home. He badly needed it. But he had two appointments with two students at three and he had to wait. What the two students blabbed about for almost an hour, he couldn't guess. He had tried to listen to them carefully, but their voices were so slow, so soft, that all he could think about was his own bed.

At four in the afternoon he finally reached his flat and immediately aimed to his bedroom. To his soft mattress. To his lovely pillow. He didn't even undress. He just threw himself on it and started snoring as soon as his head hit the pillow. He woke up at three in the morning, restored but with thoughts puzzling him.

The conversation with Laura was the most significant, the most prominent.

She had insinuated that him, John, had some sort of relationship with Sherlock. Like he was the kind of man that had no moral values. Like he was the kind of man that shagged his students. How could she believe that? How could she even think about it? It was madness! Sherlock was just a…what was Sherlock for him? Hardest question in the whole goddamn world. It wasn't the first time he questioned himself about their relationship. But it was the first time he tried to analyse it from a different perspective. He, John Watson, the professor John H. Watson defined it just as a weird friendship. But 'friends'. That wasn't a word that fitted Sherlock Holmes. So was Sherlock his friend? He was his student. Utterly brilliant student. And with a hobby that captivated John's attention. But a friend? There was nothing 'friendly' in their killers' hunts. Yet there had been the rather intimate night in Sherlock's flat. But he had been drunk. Yes, Sherlock had been 'awkwardly friendly', but it had ended in nothing. So, no, not friends. He remembered Lestrade's words: _I'm no one to him_. Those words fitted John too. Nobody. A bloody nobody with whom Sherlock liked hanging around. A bloody nobody with whom Sherlock happened to act differently. A bloody nobody.

But from an exterior perspective? From Laura's perspective? He rationalised.

He called Sherlock by his first name. Sherlock called him 'John', not professor Watson. Sherlock had his phone number. His mobile phone number. And he had appeared at the restaurant where he had been dining. He had to admit that all the clues he had gathered led to a 'I am in a relationship with Sherlock Holmes'. Except that it wasn't true. In the slightest. First: he wasn't gay, so why should one think that he liked a male student? Second: he was not attracted to him. Third: for the fuck's sake! Was he really analysing whether he were or not in a romantic relationship with Sherlock?

Laura was right. From the outside it might have looked rather suspicious, but it was not for him. It was…it was Sherlock. That was all. As Lestrade had said. He was Sherlock. People couldn't just understand, they had to accept.

And if Laura didn't accept because she couldn't understand, that wasn't his problem anymore. He picked up the phone to send her a message anyway, telling her that he understood her point of view, but that he didn't regret his acquaintance with the man. But, like it had already happened a billion of times in the last few weeks, his brain thought one thing and his body did quite the opposite. He deleted Laura's number from his phone. When he did it, he noticed the five unread messages Sherlock had sent him on Friday, which he hadn't read yet.

_Need you. – SH._

_Need you. – SH._

_Where are you? Lestrade has got a case for us. –SH._

_Evening out with professor Collins? Dull. There's a case waiting. –SH._

_Coming to get you. – SH._

Yes. Sherlock was just Sherlock to him. He defied any definition. Nevertheless he thought he needed to build some barriers between them anew. He was still a professor and really didn't want people to think that he was some sort of a pervert. Neither he wanted to ruin Sherlock's reputation. Not that the young man really had a good one either. But adding a 'my organic chemistry professor fancies me' to his already disastrous curriculum wasn't something that John was wishing for. And he had to agree one more time: from an outside perspective it all looked like he, John Watson, fancied Sherlock Holmes. Or even that (he almost laughed at the thought) Sherlock Holmes fancied John Watson. Except it wasn't like that. Especially the latter statement. That was the most absurd, unreal, impossible thing he could've ever thought about. He shook his head at his foolishness and went back to sleep.

The following Tuesday and Wednesday everything went back to normality. The drowsiness had disappeared thanks to his almost twelve hours of sleeping and his lessons went back to top-notch. He was happy of seeing his students appreciating his way of teaching. He never brooded too much over it because it wasn't his proper job, but every time a student sent him an appreciation mail or just listened interested to what he was saying, he had to admit he felt proud of himself.

On Thursday morning he woke up with a strange feeling. He couldn't understand what it was: he had just felt it when he had opened his eyes, when he had had breakfast and now he was feeling it on his way to the university. It was one of those sensation one would rather avoid for it made him feel uneasy. There was nothing wrong obviously. John had expected Laura to call him or text him, but it hadn't happened. He had expected her to face him at the university, that hadn't happened either. John had concluded that she didn't want to see him anymore and that, yes, probably she was still in love with her ex as Sherlock had suggested. So there was really nothing wrong.

Except that on that precise Thursday Holmes (he was trying to go back to the surname) wasn't sitting at his place in the last row. One more time he was nowhere to be seen. Lately the young man had never missed a lesson. Never. At least not John's. He knew for a fact indeed, from other teachers, that he still didn't attend most of the lessons but John's. He had felt rather proud of it. Yet on that precise Thursday the student (yes, student) Sherlock Holmes wasn't there.

Like the other times John felt as he was missing an important piece in his routine. Like he was lacking oxygen, but less violently. It just felt… discomforting. Terribly discomforting. The familiar black curls, the blue eyes fixed on him, the knowledge that Holmes wasn't following a single word of his explanation: all this was missing. And all this made John more and more uneasy on that weird Thursday.

When he finished at the university, he wanted to go to do some shopping again, since his last shopping raid had finished in milk and potatoes splattered on the floor. But, as soon as he exited the building, he thought it was better doing something else, in order to make that sensation of uneasiness vanish. He decided for a pizza dinner and to go to the cinema afterwards. He didn't mind which film as long as it distracted him. In the end he chose the new Bond film, although he hadn't liked the trailer. Everything would do to distract him anyway. It wasn't as bad as he had thought it was and he came out of the cinema happily relaxed.

It was almost ten o'clock and he was starting to feel tired once again. Nothing unusual had happened for the whole day, so he discarded the sensation that something was wrong as a stupid thought of his suspicious mind. He couldn't have been more wrong than in that moment, he would've thought later.

As he climbed upstairs, he immediately noticed that his flat's door was slightly open. His first thought was 'burglars', replaced one second later by 'Sherlock'. He couldn't be certain of it, but that odd feeling he had had the whole day seemed to lead directly to that. He slowly opened the door noticing, in the dim light of the late evening, that there was a figure curled on the armchair. Obviously Sherlock. He switched on the light, fearing that the young man was wounded again.

But Sherlock seemed unharmed. He had his head resting on one arm of the seat and his whole lean body perfectly fit in the less than two thousand five hundred centimetres of the armchair, his own arms surrounding his knees as if he was trying to shield himself from the world. He seemed to be peacefully sleeping.

"Sherlock?", John asked tentatively.

But the young man didn't answer. He was asleep, then.

John moved to the fridge and took a glass of water, drinking it slowly, enjoying the fresh water down into his stomach. Fresh water to clear his ideas. What the hell was Sherlock (yes, yes he couldn't call him Holmes, he got that) doing in his flat this time? No evident wound. No evident whatsoever. He was just sleeping. He could've done it in his own flat, for the heaven's sake! Yet John didn't want to wake him up. He moved to switch off the light to let him sleep in peace.

"I'm not sleeping.", a deep voice, full of what John would have called 'sadness', came from the armchair "But turn the light off."

John returned in front of Sherlock. Now he could clearly see Sherlock's eyes slightly open glittering in the darkened room, sparkles from the streets' lights in them. John sat leg-crossed on the floor looking at him.

"Why are you here?", he asked, feeling the barriers he had started to build already crumbling.

But the young man didn't answer. He stayed there, fixing an invisible point beyond John, looking like he was in a world of his own where John couldn't reach him. He seemed fragile one more time. Just as when he had slept in John's bed wounded, but more deeply this time. His eyes not only showed pain, they showed…John couldn't quite define it. They stayed in silence, John not knowing what to say and unwilling to leave, Sherlock lost. Yes, thought John, he seemed lost. Like all his certainties had been destroyed. John knew that sensation too well. It was the same sensation that had haunted him in many and one night, the sensation that everything was evanescent and ephemeral. The sensation that you were just an useless point in the vastness of the universe. Yet John couldn't quite associate that kind of thoughts with the young man. The man who was always so brilliant, so full of himself, so proud of his arrogance. Like the other time there were two Sherlock in front of his eyes, a specular image of a man that, one more time, John didn't know at all.

Ten minutes later, while John was still wandering in his own thoughts, Sherlock answered his prior question.

"I feel…empty."

And silence fell again.

There were no noises in the room, just Sherlock's and John's slow breaths. Everything around seemed to transcend the dimensions of space and time. And John didn't know what to do. He wanted to help. But how? He couldn't even quite understand what was going on.

"Why?", was the only question that came to his mind, a stupid one.

Sherlock didn't answer. Minutes passed. John felt tired, but not enough to fall asleep. He wanted to be there, conscious, and it seemed that his body was more than willing to comply his silent request. He waited, until the young man answered again in a soft whisper.

"I don't know. I just feel it."

John started to think about the times he had felt empty. They had all started with nightmares of his days and nights in Afghanistan. His bad memories of bombs falling, of dead kids, of people screaming had been the trigger for him. Maybe it was the same for Sherlock. Maybe he was haunted by bad memories too. But what bad memories could a young man like him have? A single word echoed, screamed, exploded in his head. Rehab. He knew too well what rehab meant, since his sister had been there too a long time before. And he also knew that he had promised himself to not talk about it anymore with Sherlock. But what if? What if it could help him? He took a deep breath.

"Are you suffering from bad memories?", the question sounded so wrong.

Sherlock sighed in the darkness, but John couldn't recognise whether it was a yes or no. He went on, knowing there was no turning back from what he was about to say.

"Is it about the…", he felt a grip on his heart "…rehab? Something related to it?"

This time the answer came immediately.

"It's not about that."

"I'm sorry for having asked that.", replied John, at a loss "I didn't want to bring out the topic the previous time either."

"You shouldn't be sorry."

"But…I hurt you.", John found himself answering.

"You didn't."

Silence fell again. John moved on the floor and turned, leaning his back and his head onto the armchair. He was all of a sudden so near Sherlock he could almost feel his breath on his hair. He closed his eyes.

"I'm sorry anyway.", he exhaled, opening his eyes again.

Sherlock hummed in response, then said:

"I don't know why I feel this way, John. I don't know. I…"

The young man's voice cracked and John was sure he was silently shedding some tears. John didn't turn, but stayed still, hesitant. Minutes passed one more time. Neither Sherlock nor John moved from their position. At some point Sherlock dropped his left hand near John's head. Almost unconsciously John raised his and held the young man's. It was mostly soft with harder parts on the fingertips, a sort of callosity of which he wasn't able to determine the origin. But most of all it was warm, human. The sign that Sherlock Holmes was a human like him was all enveloped in that warmth.

Minutes later he heard the calm breath of the other man. Sherlock had finally fallen asleep, probably exhausted by his own thoughts. John closed his eyes and he also fell asleep seconds later.

When he woke up in the morning he was extremely drowsy. Eyes still closed, he thought about the weird dream he had made during the night. For it had been a dream, he was certain of that. Sherlock in his flat curled in the armchair, him holding the young man's hand. Just a weird dream. Until he sensed his hand still tangled with other fingers. Sherlock's long, lean fingers. It hadn't been a dream at all. Damn. He gulped and stood up immediately, trying to regain his composure, trying to persuade himself he was still dreaming.

He paced twice in the living room, Sherlock still asleep. Damn, damn, damn. He moved to the bathroom and took a handful of freezing water, splashing it on his face, on his hair, until he was sure he was completely awake. Fuck. He couldn't believe what had happened. He couldn't believe that he, after all his mind speeches about his own inappropriate behaviour, had done the exact opposite. He felt guilty. It shouldn't have happened. Yet he knew he would have felt guiltier if he had asked Sherlock to leave. Nevertheless, no. He hadn't behaved as he should have. That was the point. For god's sake. He was a professor.

He returned back to the living room, hoping that Sherlock was still asleep. His wish went unheard. The young man was standing in the living room, staring at him as he exited the bathroom. His eyes still showing the same vulnerability as the previous night. John approached to him, ready to apologise, but also ready to say that it should never happen again.

"Listen…", he started.

But the young man moved fast towards him, closing the distance between them. In two steps he was in front of John, eyes fixed on him. John didn't understand what was happening until he felt Sherlock's lips on his. A gentle brush, nothing more. He had kissed him. Sherlock had kissed him. John froze still. Then pushed the young man away.

"What the hell, Sherlock!", he yelled.

The young man stepped back, a cold expression on his face. He left the flat in seconds, calmly, without uttering a word. John stayed motionless in his spot, still questioning himself whether it hadn't all been just a weird dream. Except he knew it hadn't.


	14. Sherlock's Decision

**AN: it's been a while since my last author's note, so I've decided to write one here :)  
**

**First, I'd like to thank everyone who's reading this, enjoying it or just passing by! I'm sorry for the poor Sherlock, really, but I can't resist the angst. I would like to write lovely, fluffy things and I end up with...this. Bear with me!**

**Thank you again for your support!**

* * *

Thirty minutes later, John was sitting on the same armchair where Sherlock had been curled, where Sherlock had slept. He could feel the other man's warmth, the smell of his skin and clothes. It wasn't bittersweet as he had thought, it was…one more time he lacked of words. It was Sherlock's. A mixture of raw musk, sweet tea and smoke. Yes, in a totally different occasion he would've called it bittersweet. But now it was just the smell of doubt, of tears, of hopes. John inhaled and exhaled deeply.

His hands were slightly shaking and his whole body was as tense as a violin string. The image of Sherlock coming close, closer, the closest. The light touch of his lips on his. His own turmoil springing out in less than a second. His heart stopping, his rational side kicking off. The rejection. He had done the right thing. God, what had Sherlock in his mind? Had he really thought that John would have kissed him back? Was really Sherlock thinking that John wanted that to happen? They had been too close that night. Never again. God, a student kissing him. That was far beyond being highly inappropriate. That had written 'John Watson: sacked' all over it.

Plus he wasn't attracted to him in the slightest. Not that if he had been actually attracted to the young man, it would have made any difference. But that made it worse. Because it would have led to explanations. Because it would have led to suffering for the young man, knowing that John didn't want him, didn't…love him back. Wait. Love? Now, that was really something that John couldn't associate to Sherlock. A kiss would have meant love for most of the people, but for Sherlock? God help if John could figure it out. Nevertheless it meant something, it meant something for the young man. It meant troubles for John. A lot of trouble. Why was it always him? Why the goddamn fucking world couldn't just leave John Watson be? Why had it to mess everything up?

What had just happened was truly a thing that John hadn't expected and hadn't wanted. Christ. Fuck one more time. Just fuck. He had just done what everyone was thinking he was doing with Sherlock Holmes. And he had never wanted something like that to happen. Sherlock was just a brilliant student as he had already repeated to himself a million of times. Even in their awkward closeness John had never thought about him in a different way. But maybe even Sherlock had mistakenly taken his interest for something different, especially after their last night.

The question lingered: was Sherlock somehow attracted to him? Again: a normal person would have answered yes, but he knew the young man. At least he thought he slightly knew him. After the kiss, he recognised, he didn't know him anymore at all.

Especially because, he eventually realised, there was another clear, strong image in his head. Among the images of the kiss, there was the one of John pushing Sherlock away. The eyes. Sherlock's eyes. He hadn't looked puzzled or hurt. Just cold. Emotionless. Just as if a veil had fallen on him. A rejected person would have shown sadness, rage, confusion. He had shown nothing. Nothing at all. And that bugged John Watson more than everything else, for he couldn't understand the other man at all. For if he had hurt him, he would have never known.

As always Sherlock Holmes was a deep mystery and John Watson now had to take his final decision. That closeness had to go away. He should go back to professor John Watson and Sherlock should definitively go back to Mr. Holmes. For their sake. For their peace of mind.

John's decision was ideal. He took his mobile phone from his jacket and deleted all Sherlock's messages. Then he deleted his number too. No more Sherlock in his life. Just Mr. Holmes. A brilliant student. A brilliant student like his every other student. That would work. The best decision of his life. Then why that pang in his heart? He shooed it away and decided to go for a long walk. He needed to forget everything. Luckily it was Friday, he had no lessons and no reason to go to the university either. He left his mobile phone at home on purpose.

The white pale light of a foggy London embraced him as soon as he stepped out from the flat. It was a thick, dense, opalescent wall of fog, wrapping him, sucking him, drowning him. He used to hate foggy days, but now he accepted it like a blessing, the fog slowly clouding his brain, the damp air entering his lungs, the sensation of being in another world. Everything in his head started to fade away while he walked aimlessly around the city. There was nothing around him. The shapes of the buildings barely visible in the deepness of that white foggy ocean. The noise of the traffic muffled. People just three steps away from him swallowed, bolted down in the depth of an unknown limbo.

It was what John needed. A non-existent London for a non-existing John Watson. His thoughts flew away with the fog, his mind and his body suspended in animation as he strolled through the nothingness. He lost himself into the city he knew so well, until he couldn't recognise where he was anymore.

He returned home when, at around eleven a.m. the fog started to raise and the sun started to shine again, making it almost impossible for him to bear the sight of a sunny London. He thus crawled back to his flat, even if it immediately brought back memories of last night.

The well-known smell of his pit of a flat was less pungent, softer as if the fog had washed it away too. It had been replaced, though, with a different scent, a scent that he had hoped to have vanished by the time he came back home. Sherlock's scent. This time it wasn't only discernible on the armchair, but filled the entire living room. It engulfed it, filling John's nostrils and body too. It was like an electric shock through John, a shock that switched on his thoughts one more time.

He immediately picked his mobile phone up, looking at the screen. No messages. He had expected a message, despite not wanting one, he had expected it.

The rest of the day passed slowly. John cleaned the house, which, actually, didn't need it that much, since he had already cleaned it three days earlier. But he wanted the scent to go away, he wanted his memories to go away. Yet, almost unconsciously, he continued to check for messages on his mobile every five minutes and didn't clean the armchair. He had lunch and watched some TV in the afternoon. Then read a book, had dinner and went to sleep. He never left his mobile phone. Not for a single second. At midnight, tired and still lost in thoughts, he went to sleep. He brought his mobile with him, placing it on the nightstand beside his bed. He had never done it before, but he didn't notice it.

On Saturday morning still no messages.  
On Saturday afternoon still no messages.  
On Saturday evening still no messages.  
On Saturday night still no messages.

Why he was checking his phone frantically, he didn't know. He just kept on watching the empty screen, waiting for something. Had he been honest with himself, he would've guessed what he was waiting for, but he wasn't being honest with himself and, at some point, heavily annoyed by his perpetual pick-up-the-phone-put-it-down, he switched it off. Only to switch it on again seconds later. No messages.

On Sunday morning no new messages.  
On Sunday afternoon no new messages.  
On Sunday evening no new messages.

He eventually realised that he was desperately waiting for a message from Sherlock. He realised it while he was cooking dinner. He wasn't just randomly checking the phone to keep himself busy like many other people in the world did, he was _expecting_, _needing_ a message from Sherlock Holmes. Obviously. Which kind of message he didn't know. An angry one, an apologising one, a normal one, but a message. He obtained silence, instead. The silence that he had wanted by deleting all Sherlock's messages, the silence he had wanted by deleting Sherlock's number too. It was like the young man was still reading his thoughts somehow.

Nevertheless it was insane. He should have felt relieved that he finally had no contact with Holmes. He was relieved. Yes, he was relieved. He was obviously relieved. Still he couldn't quite explain why that 'relief' seemed so feeble.

After dinner he turned on his laptop to check if there were any emails in his personal folder. Nothing. Who would have written to him anyway? He smiled bitterly at his solitude. Then he opened his university mail folder, expecting the usual three-four mails from his students. There were four. He opened the first.

_Good morning professor Watson,_

_I'd wanted to know whether is possible or not to book the chemistry laboratory on next Thursday afternoon from 15.00 to 16.30._

_Clara Reddington._

John frowned at the mail. It wasn't the first time a student had mistaken him for the secretary. He kindly answered that he didn't know how to do it and that she should contact the administration. They were at their second year and still didn't know such basic information. He opened the second.

_Much esteemed professor Watson,_

John almost choked on it. No one had ever called him 'much esteemed'.

_I apologise in advance for having disturbed you, but I'm having troubles in downloading the file of which you gave us the link. Could you, please, send it to me directly?_

_Kindly regards,_

_Christian Morgenstern_

John searched for the file in his computer and sent it to his student. He wasn't the kind of professor that didn't care about his 'pupils'.

The third mail was about another university meeting to discuss some other new administrative procedure. He huffed heavily in annoyance. The memory of how the other meeting had ended appeared vividly in his mind. He shooed it away. No more, he repeated to himself. No more.

He opened the fourth mail. It had been sent on Saturday night. He didn't notice the sender's address and read it directly.

_I require an appointment with professor John H. Watson at eight o'clock on Monday morning._

_Sherlock Holmes._

John froze for an instant which became an eternity. Reading that name, reading that single line of…coldness made his heart skip more than a beat and made him hold his breath. His fingers slightly trembled when he started to tap the answer on the keyboard. Every letter he pressed almost hurt him physically.

_Appointment accepted._

_Professor John H. Watson_

It was all John had been able to write. His fingers didn't cooperate for anything else. He exhaled deeply and switched off the laptop.

Needless to say, that night he didn't sleep a minute. No matter how many times he rolled into his bed, no matter how tired he was, no matter how he wanted it. The sweet oblivion of the sleep didn't come. He was forced to face his thoughts and his fears.

What would have Sherlock said? What would have John answered? What did they have to discuss about? Should John have made a speech? He didn't want to hurt Sherlock, even if he knew it was unavoidable, for he had to tell him that, no matter what Sherlock had thought, there was nothing at all between them and that he would never accept again to follow him on a case or else. He needed to make it clear that their relationship was a professor-student one. He needed Sherlock to understand that. Yet he didn't quite know with what courage he could do that, expecting Sherlock to break into tears after John's speech. He didn't want to hurt him and he had to. God, how he wanted to go back to when everything was still normal, when Sherlock was just an arrogant prick (he was still arrogant to him, but not a prick anymore).

The whole night was full of these thoughts. At six o'clock, not having slept a single second, he was already getting dressed, nervous and panicking like he was about to go on a date with Queen Elisabeth II. No, wrong. In that case he would've been less anxious than now.

At seven thirty a.m. he was already in his office, pacing to and fro, begging for eight o'clock either to never come or to come fast, to end that endless torture. When the clock on the corridor's wall marked eight, John was quite puzzled to not see anyone coming in. He started questioning himself if had read the email wrong, but the sounds of well-known steps interrupted the thought. He was cold sweating when Sherlock stepped in.

"Good morning, professor Watson.", he said, stretching out his hand to shake John's.

His voice was normal, modulated, quiet. Differently from John, he seemed perfectly at ease. No sweat, no trembling. Just a normal student who was talking with his organic chemistry professor. John couldn't quite believe his eyes, nor his ears.

"Ahem, good morning, Mr. Holmes.", he answered.

Sherlock was upright in front of him, eyes fixed in his, not a single sign of emotions on his face. Another Sherlock. The Sherlock that John had seen on Thursday night wasn't the same man he had in his office right in that moment. Again he had to face that there existed at least two Sherlock Holmes.

"I've requested this appointment to inform you of my decision to withdraw from this university.", he said in a neutral tone.

John fell in a catatonic state. It wasn't what he had expected. He couldn't allow it. Sherlock was the most brilliant man he had ever met. John couldn't be the reason of Sherlock's withdrawal. He spoke lowering his voice, trying to catch words that seemed to escape him:

"Why this decision?", and he lowered his voice some more "Is it about…?"

But he didn't finish the sentence.

"I just thought that my presence makes you uncomfortable, since I never follow your lessons or do the assignments. I'm the professors' nightmare and, considering you are a good teacher, I understand it would be better for you to not have me around.", Sherlock replied dryly, emotionless.

And thus started to walk away. It took John two seconds to reconnect his brain and answer properly to that.

"Sh…Mr. Holmes, please, wait a minute."

Sherlock stopped on the threshold and turned to John again.

"Yes?"

"I understand your…point of view.", his voice came out hesitantly "But I assure you that I don't mind having you in the class, as long as you obviously show some interest in my lesson. I…", and here John ran out of words "…have noticed how brilliant you are in chemistry and other professors have confirmed it. Hence I highly suggest that you shouldn't withdraw your studies. I assure you that your presence doesn't make me uncomfortable either."

And it was the truth, but it had been hard. He felt his heart heavy and his head rather dizzy, as he had run twelve miles and was now trying to catch his breath once again.

Sherlock looked at him with the same emotionless aquamarine eyes, imperceptibly nodding.

"Thank you for your advice, professor.", the young man replied, shaking John's hand one more time.

"You're welcome."

Sherlock exited from the office, leaving John with the deepest sensation of confusion he had ever felt in his life. He should've been the one unaffected by what had happened. Sherlock should've been the one hurt for his rejection. After that short speech, John was persuaded that it was actually the opposite. And now he really didn't know what that kiss had meant anymore. For a glimpse of a second he thought he had imagined it, but the brush of Sherlock's soft lips on his hadn't been a dream. He was still feeling it clearly. He unconsciously licked his lower lip, as if to retrace the other man's scent. Nevertheless, after those awkward (for him and not for Sherlock, apparently) five minutes he was certain that his relationship with him had eventually gone back to the student-professor one.

He should have been happy.

And he wasn't.

Why he wasn't, as usual, he didn't know.

He went to his Monday lesson fearing that Sherlock wouldn't have been there. Yet he was. In his usual place in the last row there still was the black curly head. He wasn't following a single word and was playing with his mobile phone. Nevertheless John sighed in relief. At least he had managed to persuade him to not leave the university. But…what was going on in the young man's head? Had he really wanted to leave the university because John had rejected him (even if he had seemed totally unimpressed by it)? Or were there other reasons John was unaware of?

These thoughts bugged through the whole Monday and the whole Tuesday.

Then on Wednesday Sherlock didn't attend the lessons, neither he did on Thursday.

And John started to worry.


	15. John's Concerns

When he hadn't seen Sherlock on Wednesday, John had thought that the young man had decided to withdraw university even if John had almost pleaded him to not do that. Obviously Sherlock could have been on a case, but John, this time, knew rather well that there was something else. Something under the layers of Sherlock's skin. Wherever he was, he was not on a case. He tried to not worry that much. After all it had been only day one of his absence.

On Thursday no Sherlock again. The feeling of guilt had grabbed John's stomach and heart, and had made it difficult for him to focus on the lesson. He had been explaining some Enantioselective Synthesis of Alcohols and Amines, but he couldn't really focus on that. Words had seemed to escape from his mouth without him being aware of them. Students had listened, he had felt like he had been out of his body. There had been a physical John Watson in that room, talking. There had been a mental John Watson out of that room, guilty and anxious. He tried to not worry that much. After all it had been only day two of Sherlock's absence.

Now it was Friday, day three.

He shouldn't have been worried, really. Sherlock had disappeared for more than two or three days before. He remembered it clearly: the young man had been away for two weeks back then when they had barely known each other. There was nothing wrong in not seeing Sherlock at university. He just had to wait for him to appear on Monday, or on Wednesday, or on Thursday. For he would reappear. Or, maybe, he would have found him on a bench of Hyde Park. Unconsciously he went for a stroll in that same park, that Friday afternoon. He even sat on the bench he had been sitting on when the young man appeared right out of the blue. He remembered it all too well. He could almost still feel the harsh smell of the cigarette he had lit up back then. He could see Sherlock by his side, fingers enveloping the filter. He could even remember the brand. Pall Mall, for sure. Why he did remember such an insignificant detail, he couldn't, as always, guess. Anyway, although he had been sitting there for two hours at least, there obviously wasn't any trace of Sherlock Holmes.

Saturday was day four.

It was nearly dawn after another almost sleepless night for John. He was nervously tapping his fingers on his pillow, waiting for the sun to rise. It was around seven thirty when the pale light of a November sun rose from behind the buildings, seeping through John's curtains. He got up, picked his mobile phone, which now was always with him, and went to the kitchen to prepare breakfast for him. He didn't have much will to eat and he did it as a routine thing, more than because he was really hungry. He checked his phone a couple of times, only to see there were, obviously, no new messages. There was nothing wrong in that. Sherlock had disappeared for more than four days before, he reminded himself. It was only day four. God, was he really counting the days? Yes, he was.

But Sunday was day five.

And on day five he realised he had already had too much patience. He couldn't deny he was sick with worry. He tried to remind himself, in one more desperate attempt, that there was nothing wrong with that, that Lestrade had already reassured him that it was absolutely normal for Sherlock to disappear and come back days later. Nothing worked. At midday he picked his mobile up and phoned Lestrade.

"Hallo?", the voice of the DI answered.

"DI Lestrade? Greg?"

"Yes?"

"I'm John. John Watson."

"Oh, John. I thought it was a familiar voice!"

And now? What was he going to ask? What was he going to say?

"Did you need me?", asked Lestrade calmly.

John took a deep breath.

"Sorry to bother you, Greg. I know it might sound weird, but…is Sherlock on a case?"

"Not one that I know of. I have nothing interesting on my hands at the moment. Why?"

"Well,", John exhaled, feeling his head dizzy "he hasn't come to lessons on Wednesday and Thursday. And I was…"

What was John? He was worried, obviously. And there was no point in lying to Lestrade.

"…worried. A bit worried that maybe he had got himself into some sort of trouble."

He clearly sensed Lestrade smiling sympathetically.

"John,", he began quietly "I know it still sound weird to you, but you don't have to worry about him. As I have already told you the previous time, he does that quite often. I bet he's around chasing some criminal and that he'll be back soon."

"Yes, but…"

He wanted to tell Lestrade that this time there was, in his opinion, something different, but he couldn't manage to let those words out.

"I can check him for you, if that will make you feel better. But I doubt I will find him anyway. When he is on something he's more fleeing than a fugitive. He can literally be everywhere."

"Can you, please, check anyway? I'd appreciate it."

"I'll be glad to, if that makes you feel better. But I can't assure you anything."

"Thank you, Greg."

"You're welcome, John."

John waited and waited and waited all over again for Lestrade to call him back, for Lestrade to send him a message, for Lestrade to knock at his door. He waited for so long that at some point he couldn't recognise anymore whether it were still yesterday or yet tomorrow. His phone buzzed at ten p.m., while John was trying to distract himself by watching TV.

_Haven't found him, as I suspected. I'm sorry. Greg._

John was about to answer him, when he received another one.

_I'm sure he's fine. Don't worry._

And god knew how John would have loved to do that. Forget it, make that feeling of guilt vanish.

Monday was day six.

He went to university in a state akin to trance. He did his best to explain the topic of the day to his students, but that empty place in the last row made him ache. No one of Sherlock's classmates was worried. No one turned or looked at the empty seat. They just kept on with their lives, as if Sherlock had never existed for them, as if that place had always been empty. But for John it was different. To him Sherlock not only existed, but was real, human, warm. And that indifference shown by Sherlock's classmates cut a hole through his heart. How could they have never been interested in the young man? How could they do that? How could they have one of the most brilliant minds in the world right there and not notice it? The answer was simple. Sherlock didn't like people, and people didn't like Sherlock. But John was no people.

Tuesday was day seven.

It began slowly for John Watson. He had been so tired on Monday evening that he overslept. He woke up at ten o'clock in the morning with a gulp of surprise. He usually never slept that much. He felt drowsy and unwilling to leave the bed. The bed with its duvet that during the night had enveloped him in its warm shield, that bed that was protecting him from the cold world outside. That bed where, that night, he had dreamt of Sherlock and he didn't want to let the memory of it disappear. It had been a weird dream. It had started with John in Afghanistan, sitting on a rickety chair, staring at the stars. Then a voice.

_"__Captain Watson, sir."_

Sherlock's voice. Sherlock in a military outfit. Sherlock's blue eyes reflecting the light of the stars.

_"__I'm still alive."_

And he was. Under the desert sand glued to his black curls, under the dust on his pale skin, under the dry blood on his cheeks, Sherlock was alive inside the dream. And he wasn't missing. He was there, real, sitting next to John. John hadn't said anything and the dream had gone on like that. For an indefinite time that defied any definition of time, he had sat there with Sherlock, oblivious of everything else.

And then he had woken up and Afghanistan, the stars and Sherlock had vanished. In real life Sherlock was still missing and John was far beyond being sick with worry. If he only hadn't deleted his phone number! At least he could have sent him a message. He rolled in bed, picking his phone up from the nightstand. He forced himself to open the eyes. No messages. Obviously. If he only hadn't deleted Sherlock's number! And he had no way to recover it right now. No, wait. A vivid memory of a very far away afternoon came to his mind. Sherlock's website. It had got the young man's phone number on it. Yes. He jumped out of the bed, rushed to his laptop and quickly tapped the words 'Sherlock Holmes'. For a second he closed his eyes, fearing that the site had been closed down by the young man. It hadn't. His mobile phone number shone on the bright screen. John memorised it on his own mobile, again.

Then, hands shaking, wrote a message. A simple one, an ordinary one.

_Where are you? –John. _

Message sent.

No answer arrived. During the whole Tuesday, no answer arrived.

Wednesday was day eight.

John went to university, taught his _boring_ lesson (for Sherlock would have said that and John wasn't in the mood to make it an exciting one, so the word 'boring' fitted perfectly) and went back home. No messages.

_I'm worried. – John._

Message sent.

No answer. The blank screen kept on glittering in the dark of the room, for John kept on checking it. No answer.

Thursday was day nine.

He had to go to university for his lesson in the morning, then he had to do some shopping again. He was finding it harder and harder to do his lessons. Every time he entered the class, he instantly looked at the last row. And he never moved his eyes from it. He fixed the empty spot as though he could make Sherlock reappear just by looking at his place. The feeling of guilt never left him. It was there, inside his heart, tucked with the fear that it was his fault. For he was his fault. Although Sherlock had behaved normally when they had met the last time on previous Monday, John eventually realised that he had played a part. He had acted. It must have been so. Guilt. He wished for everything to go back to normality.

He did the shopping in the afternoon and came home when the sun had already long set. He picked up his mobile phone again.

_How are you? – John._

He didn't expect an answer. But he hoped that Sherlock was reading them, that Sherlock was smiling, that Sherlock was alright. It didn't matter if he, John Watson, wasn't alright. As long as Sherlock was, John could go straight to hell. That was his mute prayer.

Friday was day ten.

And every day weighed more on John's shoulders, in John's heart. Sherlock's disappearance, Sherlock's vulnerability, about which John was cursing himself over and over again. For he had seen, among the icy look, amid the cold appearance, that the young man was somehow fragile. And he hadn't understood it. He had been too busy erecting barriers, hiding behind his 'professor' status, when, probably, Sherlock was just…what? Looking for help? He had stated he didn't want any help. And yet he had gone to John twice. What if John had miscalculated? What if in that kiss there had been a request of help, not of love? He knew for sure, for it had happened to him too, that sometimes when you felt lonely, you clang onto the nearest thing you had. Maybe he mustn't have pushed him away. Maybe he should have stopped and comforted him. Maybe. Still no certainties.

That day he picked up his phone and decided to call the young man. He was sweating and shaking as he tapped on the screen. The longest three seconds of his life.

_Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Leave a message._

The metallic voice of Sherlock's voicemail welcomed John. Obviously switched off mobile. He sighed and closed the call. Then called back.

_Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Leave a message._

"Sh-Sherlock. It's John. Ahem. I'm worried. I hope you are alright."

He felt like he was going to cry. He closed the call.

Saturday was day eleven.

He woke up and immediately picked up the phone as it had heard it buzz on the nightstand. His heart pumped in his chest. He looked at the screen. Empty. He had imagined it. He tapped his own.

_Still worried. I hope you are alright. –John._

At midday he sent a second one.

_Really, I hope you are alright._

Before going to sleep he sent a third one.

_Goodnight._

If, in some distant future, he had to remember what happened to him the next days, he was sure he would not remember a single thing, except for the screen of his mobile phone and his fingers on it.

Sunday was day twelve.

He called Sherlock's phone.

_Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Leave a message._

"It's still John. I'm, you know. Yes, you know. You always know. I'm sorry."

Monday was day thirteen.

He entered the classroom ten minutes before the lesson started, looked at Sherlock's empty seat and tapped on his mobile.

_Your place in the classroom is empty, still. I'm worried. How are you?- John._

Tuesday was day fourteen.

It was almost midnight when he made another phone call.

_Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Leave a message._

"It's still me. I'm sorry, Sherlock. I believe this is my fault. Just let me know you're ok. Ok?"

Wednesday was day fifteen and John was starting to think that he was on the verge of insanity. Guilt and fear intertwined inside his head, gripping his heart, squeezing it until the last drop of blood was drained, until he couldn't feel it beating in his chest anymore. Yet he heard its rhythmic pounding louder than everything else, filling his whole body. He felt almost sick.

At the end of his lesson, he sent another message. By that time he wasn't really expecting any answer anymore. Yet he kept on doing that.

_I've explained the Reactions of Ethers today. You would have found it boring. I'm worried. – John._

Thursday was day sixteen.

Now Sherlock had officially disappeared for many more days than the previous time.

_Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Leave a message._

"It's always me. I'm. Yes. Worried. Where are you? How are you? I'm sorry if…I hurt you."

Friday was day seventeen.

John felt…he didn't know. He didn't really know what he was feeling anymore. There was guilt, there was fear, there was worry. And there was something else he couldn't quite define. Something that he felt growing inside his heart. Something he should've recognised, and failed to.

_Still me. Still worried. Still sorry. How are you? Answer me, please. – John._

Saturday was day eighteen.

The only thing he was happy about was that there had been no news that could've made him more worried. No news about unrecognised bodies, no news about odd suicides. Had there been news of that kind, surely Lestrade would've called him immediately. This was his only ray of hope. The one he was clinging onto to not fall down in the pitch black hole of his guilt, worry, fear. Whatever it was.

_Where are you? I still hope you're alright. Wherever you are. –John._

Sunday was day nineteen.

At ten o'clock, after having woken up and checked for the umpteenth time that there were no messages, he decided to go for a walk. It was raining, but he didn't mind. He went out without the umbrella enjoying the feeling of the cold drops on his hair, on his clothes. He wanted to wash away everything. He returned home one hour later completely soaked and freezing. He was sure he would've got a cold by the next day. Or flu.

Next to his door there was a man standing, face covered under a big black umbrella. John didn't notice him until he was only few centimetres away from him.

"Doctor Watson."

Under the umbrella's oilcloth there was Mycroft Holmes. John gulped, in shock. Why was he there?

"I'm here to reassure you."

John looked at him in astonishment.

"Sherlock will be back at university tomorrow."

John tried to articulate some words, without really being able to.

"Is he", he eventually said "alright?"

"Obviously he is."

"What happened to him?", was the second hazardous question.

Hazardous for he wanted to know and didn't want to at the same time.

"How am I supposed to know that?", Mycroft Holmes frowned.

"Well, he is your brother."

"That doesn't mean I know him. I've just wanted to tell you that he'll be back to university tomorrow."

And he walked away, leaving John under the cold rain, oblivious of it as the only thing he had in mind in that precise moment were the man with the umbrella's words: _Sherlock will be back at university tomorrow._

His heart warmed instantly. He didn't know what was going to happen tomorrow. But Sherlock was back. That was enough for him.

At nine o'clock in the evening he went to sleep, early like a child who was waiting for Santa Claus to arrive. The sooner he had gone to sleep, the sooner tomorrow would have arrived. He closed his eyes and slept peacefully, only to be woken up by a noise on his nightstand. His mobile phone had buzzed. No, probably he had imagined it like he had already done before. Nevertheless, he picked it up.

One new message.

From Sherlock.

He swallowed.

_I thought you had deleted my number._

John looked at it, read it twice. Tapped the only possible answer.

_I had._

And went back to sleep.


	16. And The Violin Plays

**AN: Good morning to whoever is passing his/her own time to read this.**

**I sincerely hope that you're enjoying my little tale of our beloved idiots (because...aren't they just idiots? ;) ). Also: thank you to whoever stopped by and took 30 seconds of his/her own time to leave a comment! I love every single bit of it! **

**Thank you thank you!**

* * *

John woke up at five a.m. in a pool of sweat under the duvet. He had dreamt about Sherlock. No. He had had a nightmare about Sherlock. A nightmare so dark and painful that even the remembrance of it, when he was finally fully awake, still sent shivers down his spine.

It had started as a normal dream, with John strolling in a park. Not a specific one, just a park. It was a sunny and hot day. Summer, then. It should've been a happy image, but there was literally nobody around him. He was walking alone in an endless park, on an endless path. He had started to sweat. It was too hot. There was no water. There was no escape. Then the park had changed. It got crowded. People walking to and fro. No, not people. Sherlock. Every person in it was Sherlock. Thin, transparent, akin to a ghost, covered in blood. Then it had changed again. It was night, the park was identical and different at the same time. He had heard a scream. Sherlock's scream. He had run, run, run looking for him everywhere. The more he had run, the more Sherlock had screamed. He had arrived too late. A pool of blood around the young man's dead body, his lifeless eyes fixed to the starless sky above. John's hands touched the slick blood.

John had woken up in that precise moment, suddenly conscious that it had just been a dream and yet not completely persuaded by his awareness. He got up from the bed with difficulty, his legs barely able to hold him upright like he had really run. The image of Sherlock's blood around his pale body followed him through the corridor, into the bathroom. It had been just a nightmare, John repeated to himself. A nightmare. That was all. He drank some water from the bathroom's sink and watched his reflection in the mirror. He was soaking in sweat. He needed a shower mainly because he needed its warm water to wash away the feeling of Sherlock's blood on his hands. He waited for the water to heat up, then put himself under the hot, welcomed stream.

It was like returning back to life. Rivers of water flowed like a cascade on his head, on his eyes, on his mouth. His muscles, still rigid from the dream, loosened. It was a blissful paradise in which there was nothing else except the warm sensation of water embracing him, lulling him, protecting him. He squeezed the shower gel on his hands, his scent instantly filling the air around. He remembered that he had bought the wrong one. It was vanilla scented and he rather hated vanilla. But in that moment, that sweetness was just as welcomed as the hot water pouring on him. He washed his hands harshly with it to be certain there was no blood on them. He stayed in the shower until the water started to become cold. Reluctantly he abandoned his safe refuge, put his bathrobe on and went to the kitchen.

He sat at the table, on the old creaking chair. So that day was the day, he realised in a flash. Monday. Mycroft Holmes (Sherlock's brother, he connected, since he was still finding it hard to believe that man to be Sherlock's brother) had told him that Sherlock would have come back to university on that precise day.

What would have happened? He hadn't even the strength to make hypothesis about the whole matter. He was just satisfied that Sherlock would be back. He was just content that he was alive. He was just grateful that his real life nightmare was finally coming to an end.

He distractedly grabbed a packet of biscuits and slowly began to eat them.

At half past six he was standing in front of his wardrobe. His clothes were in front of him and he hadn't got the slightest idea about what to put on. He was feeling like he was about to go to a very important appointment with a very important person. And, he had to admit, it was a rather correct deduction. Not that he wanted to impress Sherlock with his taste about clothes, but he wanted, for some unknown reason, to look good. He eventually chose blue jeans, a white shirt and a creamy jumper. He felt comfortable enough in them and they looked rather decent on him either. He felt almost proud of his appearance.

At seven thirty he was already at university, looking outside the window of his office. It was another cold and grey day of November, the light was soft and pale behind the clouds and there was a light slow breeze that made the last leaves fall from the trees.

Some students were already coming to the building walking briskly. Probably to warm themselves, thought John. Known and unknown faces moved in front of his eyes. That blonde girl of his course, that other tall guy he had seen many times in the corridors, that other pink haired lady with pink clothes. But he was looking for one single face. Sherlock's face. He studied every person, waited patiently, until his waiting was rewarded. At ten to eight he clearly saw a tall mass of black curls, emerging from the crowd around him. He was wearing his usual dark blue coat and his usual blue scarf. As always no one seemed to notice him, nor greet him. The young man walked into the building and John lost eye contact with him. He exhaled in relief. His nocturnal nightmare had just been a nightmare after all. Sherlock was there, back. He sighed in relief one more time.

At a quarter to ten John was pacing nervously in the still empty classroom waiting for the students to arrive. No, wrong. Waiting for Sherlock to walk through the door. Waiting for him to sit at his usual place. Waiting for his familiar face to look outside the window for the whole time, completely uninterested in John's words. John shrugged his shoulders. He couldn't care less. All he cared about was Sherlock to be there, safe, distant from the pool of blood he had seen him in during the night.

He picked up his phone and looked at Sherlock's last message.

_I thought you had deleted my number._

He smiled and waited for the last five minutes to pass.

When the students started flowing in the classroom, John stretched his neck above their heads to catch a glimpse of black curls. Nothing. Maybe he had somehow missed him in the confusion of hair he was looking at. Yet, as all the students finally sat at their places, he noticed that the spot in the last row was still empty. He felt a lump in his throat and in his stomach. Why wasn't Sherlock there?

He passed two hours explaining the phosphines, without really being focused on it. He didn't even know how he managed to end the lesson without turning it in a complete utter mess. He exited from the classroom desperate for some air. He thus started to walk through the corridors trying to answer his question: why hadn't Sherlock attended his lesson? He had clearly seen him entering the building and it hadn't been his mind playing with him. So where was he now? He kept on walking until he reached a section of the university building he had never been in before. There were abandoned classrooms and a sense of old lingering in the dusty environment. Everything mutely spoke of distant times.

He imagined a violin melody echoing through that place, saturating the air around him. A sweet, yet powerful ensemble of notes slightly flowing as a summer breeze. It took him some more breaths to realise that the sound of it was a reality and it wasn't just his own fantasy. It was there, coming from a classroom at the end of the corridor. Whoever was playing, it was doing it which such mastery, such virtuosity that John thought he had never heard something even vaguely similar. Drawn by it like a bee to the most scented flower of a garden, he walked in a state of trance towards the source of those notes. He imagined an old man, like the place itself, moving his long, lean fingers on the strings. He arrived at the door panting hard, as if every step had been an effort, as if the music was slowly substituting the oxygen of the whole planet. He leaned his back on the door, not wanting to disturb the musician, dropping his head back, lost in the perpetual stream of the symphony. It shifted from being light and carefree to being deep and melancholic, from being high like a bird's flight over the top of a mountain to being low as the deepest pit of hell, from being painted white to being painted black. Every note seemed to have a life of its own. They danced in front of John's eyes, embraced him, echoed through his body. John became part of the melody itself, until he couldn't distinguish anymore where he was, who he was. There existed only the notes and John. Nothing else. Whoever was playing was doing miracles. John had his eyes closed, lost in amazement, full with every feeling he had ever felt. He had tears at the corner of his eyes, he sensed them. But they weren't either tears of joy or sorrow. They were tears of complete fulfilment, they were tears of emotions lost and found, hidden and blatant. All this thanks to that violin player.

He couldn't stand it anymore, he needed to know who such a talent was. As the melody changed one more time, John plucked his courage up and entered the room. He slowly opened the door, eyes closed, fearing that the person would have disappeared if he had opened them. When he reopened them, it took him two seconds to readjust to the light, even if it was the cold grey one of November.

And then John saw everything. The black silhouette of the musician backlit by the windows behind him, his fingers racing fast on the strings, his right elbow perfectly angular, his right hand holding the bow strongly and gently at the same time. A cascade of black curls falling softly on the wood, marble-white skin contrasting with the mahogany of the sound box, eyes closed, completely dedicated at what he was doing, his forehead slightly contracted, but serene. The white sleeves of his shirt rolled up till the elbows, showing the muscles and the tendons of his forearms moving accordingly to the melody played. Sherlock Holmes.

He could see his focus in every note he played, the dedication he was putting into every little movement.

The music changed once again. It became dark, mysterious and warm. It remembered John Watson of his nights under the starry sky of Afghanistan at first, then it remembered him of rainy days of spring when the birds sang in their nest to claim the sun back, then it brought him over a mountain's valley where the wind made the flowers' stems dance. It was a sweet sensation, that not only embraced him, but engulfed him, struck him, left him wanting for more. For he wanted more and more of it, until it would break him apart, until he would become just music himself.

And all of a sudden the melody changed one more time. And all of a sudden John wanted to kiss Sherlock. His heart echoed with the sound coming out from the instrument, from Sherlock's fingers. Every fibre of his muscles became perfectly aligned with the tremble of the strings under Sherlock's touch. As the young man was eventually playing him instead of that violin. He wanted to kiss him. He wanted it so badly that his whole body ached at the idea. He wanted to steal the notes that the other man had inside by kissing him, by touching Sherlock's soul with his body. He wanted to be physically part of the melody. He imagined their lips meeting, Sherlock with the violin still in his hands, him sucking out that symphony from the young man's mouth, making himself a part of it, drowning endlessly into it.

Without realising it, John had slowly approached to Sherlock and now he was few centimetres away from him, still flowing in the stream of notes.

Then the melody ceased and silence fell. John felt like he had been flung to the ground from another dimension. He was breathing heavily and the idea of him kissing Sherlock, as he had just imagined to do, struck him like a lightning in the clear blue sky. When he realised it, he felt like he was torn between slapping himself at the thought or go along with it. He struggled to keep himself under control.

Sherlock was still standing with his eyes closed, John could see his chest going up and down under the shirt. He was short of breath like John and seemed lost in his own world.

John, that in the meanwhile was slowly regaining his control over his body, looked at him. No wounds, not evident ones at least. He exhaled deeply.

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at him in that precise moment. He felt naked under the gaze of the other man's aquamarine eyes, he felt naked because that play had freed him from his skin. He was just soul in front of the young man, an open, limpid soul.

The desire of kissing him had soothed, but not completely disappeared and he scolded himself for being still thinking about it now. Because he was completely sure that Sherlock was reading it on his face. John smiled, trying to find the right words to praise Sherlock for his beautiful, amazing violin skills. But Sherlock didn't smile back. He stared at John with freezing cold eyes.

John couldn't help but feeling somehow broken inside as Sherlock spoke in a flat tone.

"Good morning, professor Watson."

John's stomach twisted at 'professor Watson', his smile disappearing from his face. He had expected Sherlock to be a bit different, but he had also wished that he had been wrong. He found that he almost had no strength to answer that.

"Good morning, Sherlock.", he managed to mutter.

It sounded so strange, him calling the other man 'Sherlock' and the young man calling him 'professor Watson'. But it sounded strange mainly because it had passed more than two weeks since he had last pronounced it. Nevertheless, Sherlock didn't complain for being called by his first name and kept on staring at John. They stayed still and silent for a time that became indefinite, the John found the courage to speak his mind.

"That was…amazing. Utterly brilliant. Really."

He had actually no words to express how that journey through the notes had been and those which had just slipped out of his mouth didn't even remotely match with the things that John was still feeling inside.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and slightly smiled, without much conviction, but it was a smile nevertheless. John felt a bit warmer.

"Thank you."

For some other endless seconds, no other words were spoken. They just stayed still a few centimetres away, waiting for something to happen, for the other person in the room to speak first. And again it was John's turn to break the silence.

"You didn't attend my lesson."

He couldn't quite figure it out how that had come out from his mouth. He wasn't even thinking anymore about that!

"No.", was the calm, dry answer.

"Why?", asked John abruptly, both wanting and not wanting to know the answer.

Mainly because he didn't know the possible answer at all.

Sherlock looked at him, but said nothing for a while. It seemed to John that time had frozen in that instant.

"Because", Sherlock eventually spoke "I had no will."

Those words hurt John. He didn't know why, but they hurt. Sherlock had always come to his lessons. John felt helpless in front of the young man. He plucked all his courage up and abruptly changed the topic of the conversation, trying to remain as impassive as possible.

"How", he sighed at the foolishness of the question "are you?"

Sherlock gave him a puzzled look, but mechanically answered:

"Fine."

John cleared his throat.

"Good. Nice to know."

He felt rather embarrassed, his cheeks turning slightly pink.

"Were you on a case?", he continued.

"Sort of."

It looked like he was answering by following a scheme of pre-arranged answers. Like he had already known John's questions in his mind. Nevertheless, Sherlock looked like he didn't want to carry on with the conversation anymore. He gently placed his violin and the bow in the velvety case, rolled his sleeves back to the wrists, took his coat and scarf, put them on and walked to the door. John stayed motionless in the same spot, watching Sherlock's graceful way of walking through the room, following every movement of his curls in the air, internally wanting to bury his hands into them.

When Sherlock reached the threshold, he didn't turn to John, but said:

"Goodbye, John."

That 'John' made John's heart jump in his chest, it warmed him deeply, it pulled the strings of his own body's symphony one more time. For the notes Sherlock had played were still an echo around his heart, unwilling to let it go.

"Goodbye, Sherlock.", was his rather melancholic answer.


	17. Answered And Unanswered

**AN: while thanking everyone who's following this story, I have to write a gentle reminder: in this chapter there will be a long, long, long self-examination. TONS of it. You've been warned, read at your own risk.**

* * *

On the way back home that Monday, John was in a state that defied any possible explanation in any human tongue. He was sweating and shaking, his knees seemed to be unable to sustain the weight of the upper body, his head was present and absent at the same time. He was feeling happy and sad, high and low, tired and energetic, concerned and relieved. It was such a variety of emotions, known and yet unknown, that John found it difficult to walk to his flat.

When he arrived in, he simply closed the door and threw himself on the armchair. He stayed motionless, fixing the wall in front of him, trying to make his brain work properly one more time. In his head the images of that morning chased one another. First there were Sherlock's curls amid the students entering the university, second there was him teaching his lesson, third there was still him walking in those empty corridors. But at the end of those images there was music. It was still there, within John's ears and within John's body. He closed his eyes to make it play again in his head. Now that he knew that the musician had been Sherlock, he could associate every note with the image of the young man. The shrill of the high notes reflected on Sherlock's aquamarine eyes, causing his irises to tremble like the strings. The depth of the low notes, instead, created a slow, gentle breeze that messed up his black hair. In John's mind, Sherlock became the music and the music became Sherlock. And as he liked the music he liked Sherlock, in a mutual interchange between reality and dream.

John abruptly shut his eyes wide open, taking deeper breaths to win the sudden lack of oxygen he was feeling in his lungs.

_What the hell is happening to me?_

It was the first question that popped up in his mind.

He had never felt like that before. He had never felt something remotely similar to that. He tried to rationalise despite his brain betraying him in that precise moment.

He remembered Sherlock in that room one more time, his fingers moving softly and intensely on the violin's neck, his head dancing up in heaven even if the melody had ceased some time before. He remembered Sherlock's curls around his pale face, transparent drops of sweat on his forehead, the long black eyelashes standing out from the skin. He remembered his white shirt, a little too tight on the chest, following the rhythm of the play, moving up and down with Sherlock's breath. He remembered himself unable to keep his eyes off the vision. He remembered how he had wanted to…kiss him.

_What is happening to me? Did I really want to kiss him?_

That was the second question. Well, actually more an expansion of his first one.

He could see himself and Sherlock in that room. He could still feel the notes and the desire that had sprung up in his heart all of a sudden. He had wanted to kiss a student. No, wrong in every possible way. He had wanted to kiss Sherlock. Wrong. Again. He still wanted to kiss Sherlock. As soon as he had realised it when he had been still in that bloody classroom, he had somehow thought that his desire had been caused by the way that music had played through his heart. But now it was different. Now he wasn't that sure that it had been the music. He wanted to touch those rosy lips with his own, he wanted to taste with his own tongue if Sherlock was bittersweet as he had previously thought. He wanted to tangle his hands in the young man's curls, he wanted to feel their softness on his fingertips.

_Am I attracted to Sherlock Holmes?_

The third question. The logical consequence to that desire of kissing him.

It couldn't be. No. John Watson wasn't attracted to Sherlock Holmes. First of all: he was straight and he had never thought about another man before. All his relationships had been with women. Even when he had been in the army and had felt the urge for physical sexual needs, he had never felt any attraction to any of his male comrades. There had even been one (a rather good looking boy from Arkansas) that had tried to seduce him. But nada. Nothing. Not a single possibility in the whole world. He had felt nothing for that man. And yet he had desired, yet he was still desiring Sherlock's mouth. But no.

It wasn't attraction. There had to be some perfe logical explanation. It was the relief. Yes, he was certain that it had been the relief for Sherlock was finally back, for he was alive. One always wants to hug, kiss a person about whom one has been worrying about, doesn't he? That was it. Obviously just the old, good relief. But no.

It wasn't just relief. The desire had remained. Had it been just relief, it would have disappeared by the time he had arrived home. And it hadn't in the slightest. Because he could still feel it under his skin. It hadn't gone away. Maybe it had been the relief mixed with the marvellous music. It could have been it. Yes, it could have.

Yet it wasn't like that. John could feel it clearly. He could see Sherlock in front of his eyes. He could see his tall pale figure few centimetres away. He could see his eyes meeting the young man's gaze, he could feel himself drowning into them. He could feel the desire of being scrutinised by them, he could feel the desire of watching him forever.

The black curls, the alabaster skin, the long lean fingers, the eyes, those beautiful eyes, the lines of the chest under the soft fabric of the shirt, the muscles of the legs appearing under those very tight trousers Sherlock had worn once, the line where his neck met the nape, the pencilled contour of a backlit Adam's apple: all this John Watson desired, all this John Watson longed for, all this John Watson craved for.

In the end, John's walls crumbled. They went down with a loud bang, all together. He couldn't deny it. He couldn't deny it anymore. Because, no matter how he tried to put it, he was definitively attracted to Sherlock Holmes.

There was still the 'how can I be attracted to a man when I am straight' part, but somehow his brain managed to give him the answer he needed: Sherlock Holmes was Sherlock Holmes and 'man' wasn't the first word John would have associated with him. That partially solved it.

_Why haven't I understood this before?_

Fool. He had.

Obviously he had.

He had, perhaps, understood it even on the first day they had met. He remembered the young man sleeping in the classroom and himself ready to scold that insolent prick for good. He remembered his way of teasing a professor carelessly, his smirk on his face. Then he remembered how he had felt fascinated when Sherlock had rattled off everything about his life. How he had wanted to know more about him. How he had been ready to accept Sherlock's weirdness. How the young man's cleverness had intrigued him.

It hadn't been physical attraction back then, but a mental fascination. And John had never been captivated by cleverness as it had happened with Sherlock.

And now he was starting to find out the other pieces of the 'I have been attracted to Sherlock, but I haven't realised it before' puzzle.

For example when he had talked to Donovan about him. He had been ready to take the young man's defences even if he had barely known him. He would have killed that annoying woman to protect Sherlock's reputation. And he hadn't believed all the poisonous words that had come out from her mouth.

Or, for example, when, on that same day he had met Sherlock and he had been tempted to answer that he liked him.

Or, for example, when Sherlock had summoned him from the university to trace down a burglar and John had run to him, oblivious of everything with the exception of the thrill of the chase. Now he realised that it hadn't just been that. It had been the desire of seeing Sherlock, of being with him one more time.

Or, for example, when he had panicked in seeing Sherlock covered in blood on his armchair, when he had felt a strong pain in his chest for the other man had been hurt.

Or, for example, when he had met Sherlock's brother and had refused the money the man had been willing to pay to spy on Sherlock. He had been so proud of himself.

Or, for example (and this was the most fitting example), when he had abandoned Laura at the restaurant. It had been mainly the adrenaline, but under it there had been Sherlock. Had the request not come from the young man, he would have never left the restaurant. He hadn't even felt sorry for having left Laura alone. It should have rung a bell in his head.

And, again, who would have worried that much for such an arrogant, irritating man? He had worried so much that he still remembered the pain of those almost twenty days without a single news. The sense of guilt and fault he had felt. He had been keeping on repeating himself that it was a normal reaction because a student of his had disappeared. Oh, he had been such a fool. For no other student he would have been that worried, for no other person, actually, he had been that worried in his whole life. Even when his sister had been sent to rehab, he had been calm and logical. Scared, yes. But not to the point that he had checked his mobile phone every three seconds. Not to the point he could barely sleep at the idea that Sherlock might have been in danger. For he, John Watson, wouldn't have survived the loss.

Maybe the violin play, the relief for Sherlock's return had made the physical part of the attraction emerge, but he had been attracted to the young man for a long time. He had just, somehow, denied it.

_Why?_

Oh, yes. Stupid, stupid John.

Because Sherlock was a student and he was his professor. And he held high moral values.

Because he was supposed to be straight.

Simply because he had been a stupid blind man.

Every detail was now coming to his mind, even the most insignificant one. The time he had bought Sherlock a sandwich because he had been concerned about his health. The time he had admired Sherlock's fingers around the cigarette he had been smoking. The time he had consciously let the young man guide him when he had been drunk. The time when he had tried to remember Sherlock's smell.

God, he had been immensely stupid. The stupidity made man: John Watson.

But now everything was crystal clear. He was attracted to Sherlock. No way to deny it anymore.

_Is Sherlock feeling the same about me?_

Now that was the question of the century. All his other questions about the young man faded in comparison.

He began to think about it, trying to consider every single aspect of the question.

If he had to believe to Lestrade's words (and he had no reason to suspect that the DI had told him a lie), John had been the first person Sherlock had brought with him to a crime scene. Most of people would have considered it sick and would have taken Sherlock for a psychopath, but John wasn't 'most of people'. He had loved it. Had Sherlock done it on purpose, because he knew that John loved those kind of things? Or had he done it because he found John interesting enough to be by his side? Had that been the case, it would have meant that Sherlock somehow valued his presence more than the others'.

And Lestrade had told John that Sherlock behaved differently towards him. John had no real proof of it, because he didn't know any people that might have been friends with Sherlock. The man, by his own admission, hadn't got many friends. So he actually had no idea if it was the truth. Yet he sensed that Sherlock really hadn't done any of the things he had done with John with other people.

The first thing that came to his mind was the night when John had been drunk. Sherlock had taken care of him more than any other person would have. He had helped him, had held him up, had let him sleep in his flat because he had been worried that John might have choked in his own vomit. He had given him water and aspirin, knowing that John would have needed it. He had let John ask questions to distract him from his problems. It had been a certain sign of affection. And Sherlock wasn't a man that showed affection easily.

And once Sherlock had said that he trusted John. When he had come wounded in his flat, he had said that. It might still have been a way to encourage John despite his fears, but he knew that there had been something else in that declaration of trust. It had been a recognition of John's importance, it had been a way to tell John that he was different from the others.

Plus, and John was sure of this too, Sherlock had shown his vulnerability to him. Sherlock, the man with the emotionless eyes, the man who kept on dominating all the people around him, had let himself go in front of John's eyes, leaving John almost shocked. That 'I feel empty' that had made John shiver, the need of human warmth, the need of being with someone. All this had been shown to John only. He was sure of that.

And the kiss. The kiss, that brush of Sherlock's vulnerable lips on John's seemed the last piece of the puzzle. Having gathered all this clues, one could've said that Sherlock was indeed attracted to John. But the puzzle wasn't complete. There was a last piece about which John didn't want to think. Yet he had to.

The disappearance and the return.

When he had spoken to Sherlock in that classroom, after the violin play, he had sensed that there was something different. Sherlock had seemed distant from John, like John wasn't John but a person like any other. And John couldn't really recognise whether it had been just coldness because John had hurt him, having rejected his kiss (why, why, why?), or because something had changed.

Maybe, John thought disconsolate, now Sherlock hated him. He sighed. No matter how he tried to think about the whole question, he couldn't understand what there was in the young man's heart. What if those things that Sherlock had done for John meant nothing? John's heart broke into little pieces just at the thought of it.

As he finally remerged from his thoughts, he felt as if his heart were free and chained at the same time. And he felt exhausted.

By looking at the clock on the wall, he noticed that four hours had passed since had come home. It was time for dinner, but he wasn't hungry. He actually wanted to see Sherlock, talk with him, stay with him. The rest was unnecessary. Yet he couldn't face him right now. He picked up his mobile, undecided on what to do. He wrote and rewrote a message.

_Good evening, how are you?_

But, fearing the possible answer, he never sent it.

He thus went directly to sleep and he started snoring as soon as his head hit the pillow. He dreamt again about Sherlock and this time it was such an happy dream that he would have wished for it to never end.

There was Sherlock playing the violin near a lake and he was looking at him from the distance. It was spring and the flowers on the trees were blooming in all their splendour. Sherlock was playing a different melody from the one John had heard that morning. It was a gentle tune that fitted perfectly the surrounding environment. The scenery spoke of happiness and serenity and John's heart danced in those warm feelings.

He slowly approached to Sherlock who, even in John's vernal dream, was still wearing his long coat. The young man stopped as soon as John was by his side, but the music kept playing around them, as though Sherlock was the source of it instead of the violin. And then John closed the last centimetres between them and slowly raised his hands to caress Sherlock's curls. They were soft and delicate like silk, black luscious silk. He deepened his hands into them and looked into Sherlock's eyes. Then he kissed him. He kissed him like he had wanted to do that morning, like he wanted to possess the music that emerged from his soul, like Sherlock was the only person on Earth that could save John with that simple touch of lips.

And Sherlock kissed him back with his rosy lips and his bittersweet taste of ginger and honey, of cotton candy and cinnamon, of mint and tea. It wasn't just a kiss, it was a full discovery. It was John's heart pounding so loud in his chest that John thought it might break, it was Sherlock's embracing John in his arms to shield him from the world outside. It was…love. John was wrong: he wasn't just attracted to Sherlock. He loved him. In a very odd way (and what was not odd with Sherlock anyway?) John loved Sherlock.

And John woke up with this final realisation and with the hardest question of his life.

_What now?_

Because there was no turning back from that.

Because he didn't know what to do.

Because it was the first time he felt that way.

Because there were a lot of certainties and a bunch more of doubts.

Because all was new and all was old.

Because he was perfectly confused and perfectly lucid.

Because of a million other things he didn't even dare to think about.

Because it was love.

And love was complicated.

Let alone loving Sherlock Holmes.

_What now?_


	18. Caring Is Not An Advantage

It was the third week of December and the lessons had finished a week before. It had also been two weeks since John had discovered his 'romantic' interest for Sherlock Holmes. But nothing had changed since then. No matter how hard John had tried to send a message to him, no matter how hard he had tried to speak to him after the lesson, John couldn't still manage to do it.

And Sherlock wasn't helping either.

After the day of the violin, he had returned to John's lessons, but that was all. He stayed in his place motionless, sometimes huffing and snorting in annoyance, some other times resting his head on the desk, eyes to the window, lost in his thoughts. He had always gone away as soon as the lessons had finished, had never sent a message to John, had never looked at him.

It was torture. There was no more fitting definition than that: torture. Like John was being slowly cut into pieces centimetre by centimetre, day by day. The only comforting thought that John had was that, at least, he could see the black curled head during his lessons and that he could always seek refuge in his dreams. For the dreams never ceased.

They weren't always warm and happy ones, obviously. In that situation it was a mixture of extremely pleasant dreams and sorrowful ones. Nevertheless, he was rather happy to have the possibility to meet Sherlock in his own imagination. It felt real, it felt good. Until he opened his eyes the following morning. Then it began the torturous path again.

If he only knew what to do! But he couldn't really come up with a solution. It was like he had every single piece to solve the problem in front of his eyes and, yet, he failed to do it. For it was impossible to solve. It was Sherlock Holmes, the greatest mind he had ever met and the most mysterious one. And John, to his extreme disappointment, lacked of the skills to understand him.

That was what John was thinking for the umpteenth time on a Saturday morning.

It was a very cold December morning, the sun was shining but a freezing wind was blowing violently through the city. The last autumn leaves whirled in the air like relics of a wreckage in the infinite ocean of the sky vault above. It was certainly a sight to admire and John was slowly sipping his hot tea in front of the window, thoughts racing in his head. The position wasn't the best, since the window had more than a draught passing through. Each of them hit John's chest and waist, making him feel the pleasant hotness of the tea on its way down to the stomach. He sighed.

For four week there would have been no lessons. For four weeks he wouldn't have seen Sherlock. That wasn't simply torture, that was worse than torture, that was an infernal punishment. He sighed one more time and drank the last drop of his tea, immediately feeling the lack of warmth that it had been giving to him. He moved away from the window. He needed to do some shopping and he hadn't the slightest will to.

His mobile phone buzzed and John shrugged his shoulders. God, if it were still his sister pleading him to go to her place for Christmas, he swore he would throw the phone out of the window. He picked it up angrily. As he noticed the sender, his heart stopped. Sherlock.

In a matter of seconds he passed from being nervous to being excited, from being happy to being sad, to panicking completely. He read it, mouth dry and head so dizzy he seemed drunk.

_We have got a new case. Joining me? – SH._

With extremely shaking hands John managed to tap the answer.

_Where to?_

The time it took for Sherlock to answer seemed an eternity.

_Just exit your flat. – SH._

He didn't wait a second more. He quickly grabbed his jacket from the chair and stormed off out of his living room, dashing down the stairs till the front door. He slammed it with a loud bang.

The freezing cold wind was a whip on his face. His cheeks burned red like they were on fire and he found it difficult to keep his eyes open due to the tears caused by the coldness. He shivered slightly.

The tall figure of Sherlock was standing right on the kerb in front of his door. It was the first time John was able to look at him from a short distance after having realised he was attracted to him. His heart almost made a flip in his chest and his sight, already blurry, went almost blank. His black curls swirled in the cold wind and he had his collar turned up around the neck to protect himself from the harsh wind. His usual alabaster cheeks had turned slightly pink, but, except those little details, he seemed completely unaffected by the cold outside. His eyes were wide open and of such a colour that was beyond any possible description. The watery aquamarine reflected the blue of the sky above and it looked like there were stars glittering into the young man's irises. John lost himself in the contemplation, unable to distract his attention from them.

Then Sherlock smirked, a smirk that John hadn't seen in ages, and John's knees almost gave out.

"Breakfast?", asked Sherlock nonchalantly.

John questioned himself if the young man was aware of his state of mind. He was trying hard to not show it on his face. In his brain there was a perpetual mantra of 'it's a complete normal situation', 'there's nothing different' and 'nothing has changed'. Obviously he didn't believe a single word of it, yet he kept on repeating them.

He had already had breakfast, but couldn't refuse Sherlock's offer and nodded, not finding the right words to answer. They walked for five minutes until they reached a small café at the corner of the street. John had never gone there because he never had breakfast outside his flat. But why had Sherlock just invited him for breakfast? Weren't they supposed to be on a case? He drove those questions away. He had no time to answer.

They sat down at a table near the window. Sherlock ordered tea and coconut biscuits, which, actually, were John's favourite, and waited in silence; John still contemplating the young man, Sherlock looking at the people passing by in the street.

After two minutes of dead silence, John gathered the last rational part left in him (the most of it had exploded like a soap bubble due to his knee lightly stroking Sherlock's) and spoke.

"Aren't", he cleared his throat twice "we supposed to be on a case?"

Sherlock turned his head to him and smiled.

"Yes. But it's cold outside and I didn't want to discuss the detail of it while you were freezing to death.", he said in a grin.

John's mind started to process the information. Sherlock was worried that John was feeling cold, first thought. He had invited him to a café for that reason, second thought. He was behaving normally, third thought. Like nothing had happened. Like the kiss, the disappearance and the violin had never happened, fourth thought. Relief and bitterness struck him at the same time. He had to play himself along that it was all perfectly normal.

"So", he tried to smile, knowing he didn't manage it at all "what is it about, this time?"

"Lestrade has given me a case last week. There had been three homicides of prostitutes in the last two months in the area around Bexley. They have all been found dead in dark alleys with tongue and hands removed."

Sherlock was explaining it scientifically without any minimum amount of change in his voice, like he was reading the weather broadcast. John hadn't minded the other times, but now he found himself asking if a man that showed a total lack of empathy in explaining such devastating facts had ever felt some kind of emotion in his whole life. As always, he found that he hadn't got the faintest idea.

"That suggests", went on Sherlock, unaware of John's struggle "that the killer is the same for all the three homicides. And the fact that the victims are prostitutes suggests a male killer, obviously."

Their order arrived and John nodded, trying to focus on what Sherlock was saying.

"And that's all you've got?", he managed to answer teasingly.

"Don't be ridiculous! That was the start.", said the young man dipping a biscuit into the tea.

John followed the movement of Sherlock's hands to the small plate and back to his cup of tea.

"I had to work a bit to find who the possible assassin could be."

"Why?", asked John, still trying to distract himself from other thoughts.

"Prostitutes, John, prostitutes. They are easy targets. They have no bounds, they live on the streets. Every male Londoner could have been their killer. Well, every male Londoner except, maybe, you and Lestrade."

"And I suppose that's a compliment.", replied John, a bit surprised "But you didn't say 'except me'."

"Why should I say that?", frowned Sherlock, perplexed "It's rather common for people to assume that I'm the murderer."

John gave him an askance look.

"I've never assumed that you could be a murderer!", shouted John.

"I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt.", the young man calmly replied.

John didn't understand what was going on. What was Sherlock implying by saying those things? But Sherlock continued talking and John forgot about the umpteenth awkward conversation he had just had with the other man.

"Anyway: there were no evidences on the crime scenes. So I started from the most evident detail."

"That would mean…"

"The removed hands and tongues."

"What did you deduce about that?", asked John, already amazed one more time by the Sherlock's cleverness.

Sherlock evidently pleased by the question, gladly complied the request.

"Either the hands and the tongues were removed by an expert person. The cuts were perfect, which suggested a surgeon or, at least, a person who was medically trained. Despite that, I noticed that there were some flaws in the cuts, like his hands were shaking when he was doing that. An alcoholic then, chronic alcoholic, I believed."

"So we're looking for an alcoholic surgeon?"

"A specific one. I had to do some research and after a week I've finally got the name: Mark Benson."

"Why him?"

Sherlock grinned at his own cleverness.

"Three reasons. First: he's an alcoholic and he got his license revoked for his chronic habit. Second: he had been hauled up twice for harassment on two different girlfriends. Third: guess what?"

"What should I guess? I know nothing about the case!", John found himself smiling bright.

John was finally nice and comfortable. Even if Sherlock didn't know about his love interest for him, his way of talking and the fact that was making John aware of his discoveries made John feel a lot relieved about their relationship. There was no coldness in Sherlock's way of talking to John now. In front of his eyes there was just the young man he had met the first time: arrogant, full of himself and…gorgeous. John could've listened to him for all the years to come.

"You're no fun at all.", teased the young man.

"Sherlock, I'm not a mind reader, for god's sake!"

"Yeah, I suspected that.", he grinned "Well, third then. He's partially lost the use of his tongue due to brain ischemia. The conclusion is that he cuts the hands for he knows that he can't use them anymore as a surgeon and the tongue for the aforementioned reason. He's angry and the only way he can vent his anger is by killing. But he could never kill a normal person, hence he murders prostitutes, the society's scum, in his opinion."

"Wow.", was all John muttered, agape.

No wonder he had been so intrigued by the young man, no wonder why he had fallen in love with him. How could one not fall in love with that mass of brain under those black curls?

John tried to regain his composure, Sherlock smirking at John's lousy compliment.

"What are we going to do, then?", asked John.

"We are going to catch him, John!", he grinned, overly excited at the thought.

"But…Lestrade?"

"No time for him now! I'll call him when we will have found the suspect."

Obviously there was no point in discussing with an excited Sherlock. John somehow remembered that the last time Sherlock hadn't called Scotland Yard, he had ended on John's armchair with ten stitches on his chest; but, as soon as the man stood up and paid, John found that he couldn't help but following him around as usual, oblivious of the fact that he also had Lestrade's number and that, therefore, he could have called him.

John got into the taxi Sherlock had hailed. It had already happened to him to be with Sherlock in a taxi, but now he was weirdly conscious of the presence of the young man beside him. He forced himself to turn his head away, yet he still stared at him from the corner of his eyes. Sherlock was gracefully sitting, hands on his lap and head turned to the window of the cab. What John saw was a mass of black hair backlit by the warm light of the winter sun. It looked like there were strings of gold in it and John had to resist the strong urge to stretch out his hand to softly caress the young man's head. He eventually closed his eyes, trying to focus on the case, on the chase, on whatever else that could drift his thoughts away from Sherlock. There was adrenaline running through his veins and that made everything worse. Had he not been John H. Watson, an honourable man, he would have probably sexually assaulted Sherlock. He slapped himself mentally: what the hell of a thought had that been?

"Stop that.", said Sherlock distractedly.

John's heart jumped higher than ever and he swallowed nervously. Stop doing what?

"Stop what?", he muttered tentatively.

"You're nervously tapping your fingers on the car-handle…", and Sherlock pointed at John's hand "It's annoying."

John hadn't noticed he was doing that, but he was relieved that Sherlock hadn't guessed what was going on in his mind, since he knew that the young man could do it in a snap.

Some thirty minutes later they got off in front of a pub that had surely seen better times in its past. Now the sign was melancholically hanging from his place and some letters were missing, so that an absent-minded customer would have read _T e W te H rse_.

Sherlock stopped before entering the pub.

"Is this the place?", asked John.

"Yes. He spends most of his useless time drinking here. The pub is open from ten a.m. to two a.m., so I'm sure he's in here at the moment."

And he picked up his phone.

"Calling Lestrade.", he replied at John's questioning look.

Luckily, thought John.

"Lestrade? I've got your killer. Me and John are in front of the pub where he's drinking. We're going in to avoid that he manages to escape."

John clearly heard the voice of the DI shouting a 'don't ever try to do that', but Sherlock closed the call immediately and entered the small pub. John followed.

The inside was even worse than the outside. Despite a well-known no smoking in public places law, the small room was literally packed with smoke, to the point that John found it difficult to breathe without coughing hard. Sherlock, as always, seemed unaffected, but he was a smoker, John reminded to himself. Some customers turned to them, because, to be completely honest, they looked like fish out of water. Sherlock's elegance contrasted neatly with the customers' appearance, the most elegant of whom was wearing a shirt so ragged that John could easily see the bare skin under it. Yet Sherlock didn't seem to care and literally dragged John by the arm to a table in the darkest part of the room.

The sudden contact with Sherlock's hand made John lose his breath. He let himself go in that small gesture, even forgetting the smoke.

Sherlock asked for a beer to a very tattered bartender, who gave them an askance look but said nothing. When the beer arrived, John was assailed by a doubt.

"Why are we sitting here? Isn't he in?"

Sherlock looked at him.

"Yes, he's in. There were only very old photos of him, he's changed a lot due to the alcohol and his actual life. I'm rather sure that he's the one who's playing darts. But I need confirmation."

Then he abruptly stood up and reached the man before John could utter a word. God, it was so wrong. John followed soon after, hissing in a whisper:

"We should wait for Lestrade!"

But Sherlock didn't listen and went straight to the presumed murderer.

"Mark Benson?", the young man asked "I…"

Before Sherlock could end the sentence, the suspect had already tried to punch him. Sherlock avoided the hit, but the man took advantage of the situation and immediately ran into the street. Sherlock and John rushed out. He was just few metres away and they were catching up, when he grabbed a young woman by the shoulders and took out a gun from his pocket, shooting in the air.

"Leave me alone or I'll kill her!", the man shouted.

And ran away, tugging the poor girl with him.

Sherlock and John looked helplessly at the scene. Had Sherlock not wanted to rush it, they would've avoided that for sure. John felt the too well-known feeling of rage growing inside his body. Now it didn't matter any of the sentiments that he had for the young man, now it didn't matter anything. That goddamn Sherlock had just not only risked his life, but had just given a poor hostage to a psychopathic murderer. He turned to him, eyes burning with fury, for he was furious. And a furious John Watson was something that rarely happened.

"For the fuck's sake, Sherlock!", he shouted "See what have you just done? Couldn't you fucking wait for Lestrade? But no! I'm the brilliant Sherlock Holmes and I can do this alone! Are you always such an idiot?"

Sherlock looked at him with inquiring eyes.

"I'm not fucking joking, Sherlock! You've just delivered a young lady in the hands of a psychopath!"

"He won't kill her.", answered Sherlock coldly "As I said, he only kills prostitutes. And…"

"I don't fucking care if, in your goddamn opinion, he only kills prostitutes! What if you got it wrong? What if he actually kills her? What if she were one of your friends?"

"I don't have friends.", grunted Sherlock, still calm.

John couldn't believe his eyes and his ears. The man beside him was not only arrogant, selfish and impossible. He was inhuman. He didn't care about anything, anyone. John's rage doubled. How had he been so stupid to think that the young man had considered him, John Watson, a nobody, important? He was so angry. For the man was an emotionless shell, for he loved that emotionless shell, for the emotionless shell would have never loved him back. He shouted louder.

"And I see why! There's a fucking woman in the hands of a killer! For god's sake! And you don't fucking care!"

"Will caring about her help save her?", the young man stated.

That was more than John could stand. He looked at Sherlock angrily, his whole body shaking for the rage running through it, hands clenched in fists so hard that it hurt.

"You're a bloody machine, Sherlock!", he yelled a lot louder "Not a human! A machine!"

And he turned away, leaving Sherlock in the middle of the road. He saw Lestrade's arrival, but he kept on walking, drained of all his strengths, tears at the corner of his eyes. He had been such a fool. He was nobody to Sherlock. The young man had just stated that he didn't have any friends. He had just shown that he, Sherlock Holmes, didn't care about human lives. He had been such a fool. The signs of affection he had seemed to show to him were just nothing. A machine. He was just a machine.

He arrived home exhausted, hollow, defeated.

He threw himself on the bed and fell asleep seconds later from exhaustion. When he woke up in the late afternoon, he was still a twisted mass of feelings. He unconsciously took out his mobile from his trousers, as to distract himself. There was one new message.

_We have caught the killer. The woman is alive, if you wanted to know. – SH._

John grunted and switched his mobile off. Why, oh why, of all the people had he fallen in love with Sherlock Holmes? He buried his face into the pillow and desperately tried to fight back the warm tears that were already flowing down on his cheeks.


	19. A Solitary Christmas Present

**AN: first of all, thank you! Thank you to everyone who's following this story, who has favourited it, who's liking it! Lately I've received some very lovely comments about it and they have definitely warmed my heart! You are all great and I love you all :)**

**Enjoy the chapter! **

* * *

It was Christmas Eve. A very solitary and boring Christmas Eve for John. He was sitting on his armchair watching a crap TV show he really didn't want to watch. But he had nothing more interesting to do. His sister had called him at least four times during the last twenty-four hours to invite him for dinner and he had refused.

It was not that John didn't like his sister, he just couldn't…approve her past. They had never really got on with each other and, as time passed, John had found himself more and more distant from her. The breaking point had been his departure for Afghanistan and both her and his divorce. Now she was living with another woman and John didn't like her choice. Hence the conclusion: no Christmas Eve's dinner for John Watson.

Plus he really wasn't in the mood to fake Christmas happiness.

It had passed a week since he had last seen Sherlock. Well, since he had last heard about him too. There had been no messages anymore between them. Partially because John was still angry, partially because he was rather broken too. The 'I don't have friends' sentence was still burning in his heart like nothing else. If he indulged in the thought of it for a while, John could feel his whole body tense and his heart burst into flames until he couldn't feel it inside of his chest anymore.

More than once he had tried to reconsider the nature of his attraction to Sherlock, desperately trying to persuade himself that he had been just confused, that he didn't like Sherlock in a romantic way, that there was still a perfect logical explanation for those emotions. Except that, obviously, there wasn't. Except that he failed to not think about Sherlock every five minutes.

The young man hadn't even apologised for what he had done that day. Not that John had really hoped for that to happen, but deep inside he had wished for it. But a dehumanised man like Sherlock would have never apologised for such trivial matters. All he cared for was his exceptional brain and his overwhelming ego. And John had even believed that a kind, gentle Sherlock Holmes had existed. Such a fool. He was such a fool.

He dropped his head on the back of the armchair and stared at the ceiling. Midnight bells rang in that precise moment from the darkness outside. They echoed loud in John's small flat. So it was another Christmas, John thought while moving to the kitchen's cupboard. He took out a very old bottle of whiskey (oddly enough it had been his sister who had given it to him when he had returned from Afghanistan) and took a sip directly from it.

The warm liquor went down his chest straight to his almost empty stomach, making him feel immediately unstable on his legs. He dropped on the armchair once again, finally switching the crap television programme off.

Now the room was almost completely dark. There were no Christmas decorations in the flat, for he found them depressing, being him the only person who would have enjoyed them. He took another sip of whiskey. It was good. The alcohol was comfortable and he was starting to become a little tipsy. He didn't mind that much. He took another sip, closing his eyes and following the path of the drink down to his stomach. There were flickering lights coming from the streets. Red. White. Green. Green. White. Red. They danced on John's walls and John lost himself into them. It was a stupid way to distract himself from his thoughts, but worked rather nicely. He took another sip and eventually put the bottle down.

He continued to stare at the lights, until the white ones somehow turned into Sherlock's alabaster skin and the darkness around turned into Sherlock black curls. He felt extremely drowsy, but the image in front of his eyes became more vivid, to the point that Sherlock appeared in all his magnificence. John smiled wearily and picked up the bottle once again and, as to toast, he stretched his arm to the dreamy figure of the young man.

"I know you're just a reflection of my stupid brain, Sherlock.", he said in a low voice "Anyway: merry Christmas to you, bastard, selfish, infuriating and…gorgeous man."

And he took the last sip from the bottle, put it back in the cupboard and finally dragged himself to bed.

He woke up on Christmas morning with a light headache and no will to get up from the bed. Frankly, in his own loneliness, Christmas was just a day like any other, but somehow sadder, for outside the whole world cheered around a Christmas table with their beloved ones and he…well, he was alone. Unless he wanted to spend the day with his sister, which was the least thing that could've happened right now. Instead he would have loved to spend the day with…Sherlock. Obviously. It was a random thought, he was still cross at the young man, but he couldn't deny that he was thinking about how it could have been. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine it.

He found himself in the same flat he was in, but it was completely different. There was a cosy and homey atmosphere. There was a fireplace where a warm fire was crackling slowly. There was a Christmas tree in a corner and Christmas light at the windows. There was the scent of spices: cinnamon, myrrh and bergamot. There was snow outside and the light of the day was dim. And there was Sherlock obviously, with his violin, playing a melody John couldn't quite catch. The pale face a mixture slightly orange from the fire, the black hair burning red, the eyes like dancing flames.

He opened his eyes to find himself back to reality. He repeated to himself that he shouldn't indulge in such thoughts for they were impossible dreams and would have only made him suffer more and more.

He eventually got up and, after a while, decided to go for a long walk.

Despite being Christmas day, the streets were packed with tourists enjoying the spectacle that the city gave to his guests. And it was certainly a scenery to admire even for John who hadn't seen London on Christmas for three years, being stationed in Afghanistan. The day was cloudy and there wasn't much light around, so, although it was mid-morning, the illuminations of the streets shone brighter in the soft darkness. Christmas music came from the open shops along the roads and the smell of hot chocolate, smoking chimneys and Christmas teas filled the air around. Everyone walked with a bright smile hand in hand with the people they loved, cheerfully chatting together: the perfect picture of a Christmas day. Except, maybe, for a single out-of-place man who walked silently through the flow of people, with his grey-blonde hair and his still slightly tanned skin: John Watson.

He stopped near a busker who was playing a festive tune on a violin. He looked at the man, whose fingers run on the violin strings with some sort of roughness. He found himself smiling while he mentally compared the delicacy of Sherlock's marble lithe fingers to the ones of the street musician. There was no comparison even in the music. The man was playing his own version of "Silent Night" with great mastery, but everything faded as compared with the music that had come out from Sherlock's instrument. As the young man was different from any other man around so was his music. For his way of playing was like Sherlock himself: shallow and deep, mysterious and luminous, bitter and sweet, egocentric and brilliant. God, he was still thinking about Sherlock. He huffed in the cold December air, creating a small white cloud in front of his nose. He took a five pound note from his wallet and threw it into the busker's hat. The man smiled at John, slightly nodding in gratitude.

He went on walking for some other time. As he was crossing a small park, his phone buzzed. It took it out. His sister still insisting that he should join her at least for Christmas. He immediately tapped his umpteenth negative answer, yet he wished her a merry and joyful day. Seconds later it buzzed again. Unknown number, which, anyway, looked quite familiar.

_Merry Christmas, Laura._

John had to look twice at the message to connect. Laura. There was no doubt that it was an impersonal message, but it made him think nevertheless. He had almost forgot about her and he felt very sorry about how she had treated her back then. She had been nice with him and he had been a total asshole. He slightly chuckled at the sudden realisation that she had been the first to suggest that there was something between him and Sherlock, even before John himself had understood it. Anyway she had been wrong. There was nothing between Sherlock and him. Only a hopeless one-sided love. He answered the message with a courteous 'Merry Christmas to you too, John' and deleted both the messages.

Then he stopped, fiddling with the mobile in his hands, wondering whether to send a message to Sherlock or not. As always, he couldn't make up his mind. He desperately wanted to do that, but with what purpose? The young man would have probably answered courteously, without even caring about it, and stop. No point at all.

He eventually decided to go back to his flat to eat lunch. He had bought some packed appetizers and had some turkey left-overs from two days before. He had even got some wine to go with his, he had to admit, quite poor Christmas lunch.

As soon as John entered his flat, he noticed a small packet on the kitchen table. It was wrapped in a perfectly folded metallic red paper with a golden ribbon around. He suspiciously looked at it and glanced at the four corners of the room, then moved to the bedroom and to the bathroom. Nobody. Not a single trace of a possible intruder. The door had been locked, there was no different smell and nothing had been moved. But the packet, obviously, couldn't have just appeared out of nowhere.

He returned to the table and gave it a closer look. It was of a medium dimension and, when he took it in his hands, John noticed it was quite heavy. He stroked the wrapping paper and smelt it to see if he could trace any familiar scent. Nothing. He put it down and stared at it one more time. Two minutes later he eventually decided to open it. He gently took away the ribbon and unwrapped it from the red paper. It appeared to be a red leather box with something heavy inside. He opened it. What he found was beyond any possible idea he had had until that precise moment.

In front of his eyes there was a gun. It wasn't any other gun but a SIG Sauer P226 itself, the one gun which was the standard equipment of the British Army, practically identical to the one John had owned during his three years stay in Afghanistan. Obviously it wasn't the same weapon. This one was shining new, not a single scratch on it. The cold black metal glittered in the light of day and John's heart started to race inside his chest. Was it a threat of some sort? He feared it and picked it up very carefully from his box. Nothing happened. It was just a cold piece of metal.

As he had it in his right hand, it immediately brought him back to his days and nights in the desert, where he could only breathe dust and were life was a mere illusion. It brought him back to the harsh smell of gunpowder, to the metal sweat coming down from the helmet, to the stink of the blood drying in the open air. It brought him back to the starry sky in the dead silence of his patrol nights, to the noise of the far away mortar shots, to the hands crusted with dirt. But they weren't painful memories. He would have never admitted it openly, but he somehow missed that risky life, the adrenaline pumping in his veins, the well-known smell of peril. Sometimes he had wondered whether he were more of a soldier rather than of a doctor. And all of a sudden he understood another piece of his attraction to Sherlock Holmes. That man smelt of danger himself. As Sherlock had said once '_It's always the danger_'. And it was the goddamn truth.

He looked at it again. While the right side of the stock was perfectly clear, the left side of it had something that John had least expected to find. It took him a few seconds to realise that there was something engraved on it. A writing. No, not a writing. A name.

_John H. Watson_

On the L105A1 there was his own name carved. The chosen font was graceful and elegant, like it was a piece of jewellery instead of a weapon. He caressed it with his trembling fingers, tracing the smooth surface of every single letter.

It was in that precise moment that he noticed a piece of paper on the bottom of the box, under the place where the gun had been. It was of an old creamy colour and it came from a music score page. There were some notes on it and a pure, refined calligraphy. He had already seen that writing, a long time before on a note left on his bedroom sill. Sherlock's handwriting. Two single words.

_Sorry.  
Sherlock_

John stared at them, lost in both amazement and perplexity.

So it was Sherlock's Christmas present for him. He should have deduced it. Who the hell on the whole Earth would chose a gun as for a present? He smiled at the idea. Most of the people in the world would have found it highly inappropriate, but John found it…appropriate. He liked it. He had somehow missed his gun since they had requested him to give it back when he had been invalided home from Afghanistan. And he would have sworn that Sherlock knew it too well. He smiled a bit brighter.

'Sorry'. That left him rather puzzled. It was like the other times when the young man had said the same exact word. It didn't look like a sorry for something specific, it looked like an apology for things that were beyond John's comprehension. Whether he was saying sorry for what he had said one week before or for some other unknown reasons, John couldn't guess. Yet he accepted the apology for everything: for the accident of the previous week, for the disappearance of the last month, for the fact that Sherlock couldn't love him back. He forgave him wholeheartedly. No matter how much he could be mad at the young man: a 'sorry' from him almost meant a 'please, forgive me because I am not capable of being a normal human'. It was his own plea, and John, sincerely, couldn't just not forgive him on Christmas day. Especially after that present. He smiled again and ate the poor Christmas lunch a little happier than before.

When he finished, he picked up his phone and eventually decided to send the message he hadn't had the courage to earlier that morning.

_Thank you and merry Christmas, Sherlock  
John_

The answer didn't arrive for a long time. It was four o'clock and a pale sun behind the clouds was setting down, when the mobile buzzed, making an asleep John Watson jump on his armchair. He looked at the screen.

_Merry Christmas to you too, John  
Sherlock_

John couldn't help but smiling at the message and he reread it a dozen of times, before taking the second awkward decision of that day. He decided to pay a visit to Sherlock at his flat. He had been there when he had been drunk. He had to focus to remember the address. At first his memories were completely vague and blurry. He hardly remembered anything important. He had a very imprecise idea of the streets where they had walked and it took him his greatest efforts to extract a vivid image. A blue door with a golden doorknocker. Three numbers and a letter over it: 221B. Now the street. He needed the street. He could have looked it up on his laptop, but he was sure he could have retrieved it from his mind if only he focused on the matter. He remembered his unsure steps, clinging on to the young man's arm. He remembered looking up when they had arrived in front of the door. A signpost on the building at the corner of the street. Baker Street. 221B Baker Street.

He clapped his hands together in satisfaction and went out, hailing a taxi to the place. He arrived thirty minutes later.

London was already in the darkness of the incoming night and the Christmas illuminations in the streets shone brighter. Baker Street was no exception. A carnival of flame-like lights was filling the obscurity, giving the street a cosy and warm air. And, even if a freezing wind had started to blow, John felt reassured and warmed by those lights.

As he stepped out of the taxi, the door welcomed him. However, now that he was there, he began to think it hadn't been a great idea. What would he was supposed to say? Well, a 'Merry Christmas' would have certainly worked. But after that? He paced for a while to and fro in the street. When he had finally managed to calm himself down, he plucked all his courage up and rang the bell. He was sweating cold. He would have sworn that centuries passed while he waited. He heard footsteps behind the door, but they weren't Sherlock. Oh my!, he thought, what if Sherlock wasn't alone? What if there were other people with him? He was about to turn away, when the door opened.

An old lady gave him a puzzled look.

"Good evening.", she said, still looking perplexed.

"Ahem.", he cleared his throat "Good evening. I am…", he found it difficult to speak, head gone numb and mouth cotton dry "…looking for Sherlock Holmes. Is he in?"

The old lady expression changed into an apologising one.

"Sorry, dear.", she said "Sherlock hasn't been home since this morning. I'm really sorry."

"Not a problem.", he managed to answer.

"Did you need him for a particular reason?"

"Not really. I was just…passing by and stopped to say hello."

The old lady's face returned perplexed and then changed into a soft, caringly smile.

"Would you like some tea, dear? It's cold outside and maybe he'll return soon."

John thought it would have been a great idea if he had been in the conditions to wait for Sherlock's return, but he was already feeling all his courage disappearing in a bunch of seconds.

"No, thanks. I've got to go. It's quite late and…I have to return home."

"Oh, ok. I'll tell him you've come when he's back. What's the name?"

John thought about whether to say his name or not.

"I'm just…a friend. A friend.", he said in the end.

The old lady gave him an odd look, like she was surprised about the word 'friend', but said nothing on that.

"Ok,", she replied "I'll tell him. Good evening and merry Christmas!"

"Merry Christmas!", John answered.

And he walked away. Small snowflakes started to fall from the sky. He rubbed his palms together to gain some warmth and hailed a taxi home.

One week later it was New Year's Eve. As always, John was alone in his flat waiting for another year to finish and for a new one to begin. He found himself thinking about what had happened to him during the year that was about to end. It was very hard to sum up everything.

In January he had had the worst surgeries of his whole military career to do. A bomb had exploded in a village nearby and he had had to amputate a good deal of limbs from men, women and children. Then a friend of his had took a bullet right in the leg while they had been on patrol and he had had to extract it in the middle of the night when they were kilometres away from the nearest settlement. He had had to tore off part of his uniform to restrain the seepage. He had had to walk all the kilometres back holding his friend up. They had luckily managed to reach the camp, both safe.

In March he had almost got himself killed. A bomb had exploded a dozen of metres away from where he was standing and, to see what was happening, he had moved from his safe position. Then there had been the shot. The loud bang of it still echoed in his ears. It was nothing like anything he had ever proven before. He had felt like his left shoulder had been ripped from his chest, like all his blood had been pulled out and pushed back in in a matter of seconds, like his heart had suddenly exploded together with the bomb. He had survived. With his shoulder soaked in blood, he had started to run, almost breaking his right leg during the escape. He had survived.

But he had spent two months in a hospital. The wound had been pretty bad and it had taken him two months to regain the full use of the left arm. But he had been left with a very evident scar and a limp. Psychosomatic, as firstly his psychotherapist and secondly Sherlock had told him. Nevertheless, for three months he hadn't been able to walk without a cane.

Then in June, when he had been finally discharged from the hospital, he had been completely at loss with himself. He hadn't got any job, any family, any friend. The army had granted him an accommodation and a pension, but John had felt useless. But one day he had met his old friend Mike Stamford who was desperately looking for a new organic chemistry professor, since he had been appointed vice-chancellor the previous week and he hadn't been able to find a decent replacement. He had thus asked John a big favour. John had refused at first, only to accept three weeks later, after Mike's insistence.

In September he had started his new job and he had met Sherlock Holmes. He remembered their first half-meeting at the park, when the young man had stumbled upon him, making him losing his balance and almost fall on the ground. Then he had met him in his classroom and had been fascinated by his cleverness. Then he had gone on a crime scene with him, solved cases with him, fell in love with him.

He really could not have said that it had been a normal, tranquil year.

While he was still lost in his thoughts, bells began to chime and fireworks exploded outside John's flat, lighting up the dark room. He moved to the window to enjoy the sight. Flashes of red, green, blue, yellow and pink cut through the sky, drops of gold blasted in the air to fall down in a cascade, sparkles of silver shone in the starless coloured night.

He picked up his phone.

_Happy New Year, Sherlock.  
John_

He didn't expect the young man to answer, but he did. Seconds later the screen flashed.

_Fireworks are certainly an unbeatable show from your living room window. Enjoy them.  
Happy New Year, John.  
Sherlock_

John smiled at the message. As always, Sherlock knew. He didn't even question himself anymore on how he did it. Sherlock simply knew. He turned his head to the window.

"Goodbye to John Watson's weirdest year and welcome to a surely new odd one.", he said with a smirk.

_What now?_

* * *

**AN pt.2 :**

**A small note about the gun: our lovely Jim Moriarty in The Great Game says that Sherlock is holding a L9A1, which is wrong.**  
**Sherlock is actually holding a Sig Sauer P226R, also known under the name of L105A1.**

**Hence my idea of using the L105A1 in the chapter as the present.**  
**About the engraving on it: I haven't done any research about it, but I do think that, since it's made of metal, it's actually possible.**  
**On how Sherlock acquired the gun: well, he probably has got his ways!**

**(I don't know how I would react if someone gave me a gun as present o.o, John takes it lovely ^^)**


	20. A Birthday In Murder

**AN: hello everyone again!**

**Thank you all for your lovely reviews and because you're following/favouriting this story! I love every single comment and I'm sooooo glad you're finding this story interesting!**

**Thank you, thank you, thank you!**

* * *

During the early morning of January 6th John was peacefully sleeping in his bed, when he heard a well-known baritone voice in his dreams.

"John!"

Good, he said to himself intimately, another dream about Sherlock. But the vision remained black. For a while he tried to understand what that had been, when he felt something moving on the bed and then pressing on his lying body.

"John!"

A more than confused John opened his eyes. In the darkness of the room, lightened only by the feeble light coming from the street below, he saw the clear shape of Sherlock Holmes. The young man was literally sitting on John's tights and was looking at him with his deep blue eyes. He thought he was hallucinating and closed his eyes to go back to sleep. Still, he felt hands grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him.

"John! Wake up, we've got a case!"

John reopened his eyes, eventually understanding that it wasn't either a dream or a hallucination. Sherlock was really sitting on him on the bed and was shaking him by his shoulders. He felt a thrill echoing through his whole body, but managed to sound firm and logical despite the situation he was in.

"Sher-Sherlock! For the hell's sake! What the hell are you doing here?"

"I thought I made myself clear, John. We've got a case!", he shouted excitedly "I sent you some messages but you didn't answer me, so I came in!"

John lazily moved a bit, trying to free himself from the young man's pressure on his body. He swallowed when he felt his groin softly stroking Sherlock's leg. He thanked a whole bunch of gods and goddesses for the room was dark enough to hide his cheeks turned pink. Yet he still managed to somehow maintain his composure.

"Obviously I didn't answer your goddamn messages! It's the middle of the night!", he said after giving a glance at the window.

"Don't be ridiculous! It's four a.m.! It's almost dawn!", Sherlock pointed out.

"I was sleeping! In my flat!", he yelled at the young man, desperately trying to hide the slight tremor in his voice.

"Sleeping is boring.", Sherlock smirked "A case, John, a case! So get up and get dressed, I'll be waiting for you outside!"

And the young man removed his body from John's bed, leaving John both happy and sad for the loss. He grunted a sigh and got up, yawning hard. Four a.m., Sherlock in his flat, Sherlock on him. And the year had just begun. He sighed a second time and quickly grabbed his clothes. Despite his desire to be as quick as possible, he was still half asleep and each movement was accompanied by a yawn. When finally completely dressed, he went to the bathroom and splashed some freezing water on his face to wake himself up. He then grabbed his coat, took his mobile from the pocket and gave a quick glance to it. Seven messages from Sherlock.

_We've got a case. It does seem very interesting. – SH._

_Why aren't you answering me? – SH. _

_You always answer me in a matter of seconds. – SH. _

_Are you sleeping? – SH._

_You can't be sleeping. We've got a case! –SH. _

_Coming to get you, get dressed. –SH._

_Entering your flat, don't be alarmed. –SH._

John shook his head and smiled. Only Sherlock could do something like that. He rushed downstairs. A cab was already waiting for him with Sherlock inside. He got into it and the young man smiled at him as soon as he positioned on the seat. John's stomach filled with roaring butterflies in less than a second. He smiled back with an idiotic expression on his face. He tried to focus back, desperately trying to forget the scene of Sherlock's body over his own, finding it harder than he thought. For every time he looked at Sherlock, he saw him in that same position. He blushed red to his ear tips and thanked again whatever god existed because he was hidden by the night.

He swallowed and cleared his throat.

"What have we got?", he asked, trying to sound perfectly firm.

Sherlock grinned widely.

"Quadruple, John, quadruple murder in a locked room!", he grinned wider.

John shook his head in disbelief. Quadruple murder and to Sherlock looked like a Christmas present.

"Sherlock, it's a quadruple murder and you're…overexcited!"

"Shouldn't I be?", asked the young man, confused.

"Well, no. It's not, ahem, decent."

"Decent? Dull. It's a quadruple murder in a locked room, John. A dream! The best birthday present I've ever had!"

John shrugged his shoulders. He couldn't do anything, so he gave up all together.

"Where to?"

"Richmond. Lestrade had texted me two hours ago. And we are already late because you were sleeping!"

John rolled his eyes. Everything was so absurd. He was still feeling his cheeks burning with redness, but the normality of their taxi conversation made John feel more at ease as the time passed by. It was still Sherlock and him. He could think about his unreciprocated love another time, now he had no time for that. He just enjoyed the feeling of adrenaline starting to run through his body.

Sherlock smirked at him.

"And you tell me about decency.", he remarked "Look at you. You're a bottle of adrenaline ready to explode."

John giggled. It was a carefree, heart-warming giggle which spontaneously came out from his heart, which let all his anxiousness disappear. Sherlock started to giggle too. Soon the cab was filled with soft burst of laughter, chuckles and giggles. The cab halted in front of a very luxurious property. John and Sherlock regained their composure and got off the taxi. A bunch of police cars were parked in the big garden and the DI Lestrade was waiting for them leaning on one of them.

"Here you are!", the policeman said to Sherlock, before turning to John and giving him an inquiring look "Good morning, John."

"Sorry for the delay. I had a hitch.", Sherlock cut short "Show me."

The DI guided them through the hall and the corridor to the dining room. Sat on four chairs there were four bodies. The sight was rather disgusting. John had seen worse in Afghanistan, but he had never thought that London could give him such things. There was blood everywhere: on the table cloth, on the food on the table, on the chair, on the floor, on the ceiling even. The four people had been, at a first glance, hit with a knife in various parts of their bodies with such a violence that their clothes were almost non-existent anymore. Sherlock, impassive, looked at it.

"Here it is.", stated Lestrade bitterly.

"What do you know?", enquired Sherlock.

"Only the evidence. The bodies had been discovered at two a.m. by a watcher that does patrols around this neighbourhood. He told us that he had heard some screams coming from inside the house. When he got in, he found the dining room door locked from the inside and had to break in by force. He then called us. The bodies are those of Annabelle, the mother, Frank, the father, and Tom and Keith Fielding, their sons. According to the guardian, they had just returned at midnight from a two week holiday in Paris. There's no sign of housebreaking and there are no other people in the house, the servants having being discarded until tomorrow morning. As I said, the door was locked from the inside and the windows were closed too."

"Is this all?", asked Sherlock.

"Yes. God help me on this."

Sherlock began to move around the table with his usual scrutinising look. John approached, knowing the young man would have asked him his perspective. He looked at the bodies. There were cuts everywhere on the front, very deep cuts. There were cuts on the table cloth too. But there were no cuts on the back of the bodies and there were no cuts on their hands nor their legs or feet.

"Dead for huge blood loss.", he said.

Sherlock nodded and kept on pacing around the table, slowly showing a smile.

"Lestrade!", he said abruptly "There couldn't have been a better birthday present!"

The DI huffed and rolled his eyes.

"For god's sake, Sherlock! It's a crime scene!"

John looked at young man. Hadn't he already said that it was a 'birthday present'? He turned to Lestrade and approached to him, leaving Sherlock mumbling while leaning on a body.

"Birthday present?", he asked the DI.

"Oh yes. Today is his birthday.", the man answered.

"Really?"

"Yes. He doesn't care much, anyway."

"And…", he asked, rather astonished "…have you organised this for his birthday?"

The DI furrowed and said, shocked:

"For Christ's sake, no! I'm a policeman! It's not like that I go around and kill people for him!"

John blushed red.

"Yeah, yeah. Sorry.", he apologised swiftly.

"Not that I haven't thought about it sometimes…", Lestrade continued in a smirk.

It was John's turn to be shocked.

"When he's bored, really bored, he gets annoying. And sometimes it was just a nightmare. He called at every hour of the day and of the night, pleading for a case, so much that once or twice I prayed for someone to kill somebody…", he explained.

John smiled understandingly. He knew how Sherlock could be. He knew that too well, having just had a meeting with him at 4 a.m. in his room on his bed. Just the swift thought of it sent shivers down his spine. John quickly changed topic, returning on Sherlock's birthday.

"Doesn't he celebrate his birthday with his family?"

In the meanwhile the young man was touching the sides of the long dining table, kneeling under it.

"Family? What family? The nearest relative is his brother."

John nodded.

"Mycroft.", he said.

"Yes…how do you…?"

"Long story."

"Then I think you have seen how the two of them get…along."

John thought about their brief encounter months before. If that were getting along with a brother, John and his sister would be the perfect example of family bliss.

"And his parents died when he was fifteen.", concluded Lestrade.

John swallowed the information and was ready to ask something else when Sherlock shouted.

"Found it!"

Both John and the DI turned to the young man.

"Found what?" they said in unison.

"How they had been killed.", Sherlock simply remarked "Very ingenious system. Brilliant murderer. Very clever!"

"Sherlock…", threated John, teasingly.

The young man huffed.

"Come here and see!"

John and Lestrade went closer. Sherlock lifted the table cloth up and showed the two men some small horizontal cuts through the wood.

"There are sharp blades into them, you can see it if you look carefully. With the help of some light, you can see the gleaming silver colour of steel."

And he pointed his mobile phone torch towards them. In the rear of the cut John saw a glimpse of silver.

"Wow.", he said.

"There's a sophisticated mechanism that, command given, makes them spring out. They had just to sit here and eat. Then the killer had just to wait and press a button and…bang! Family dead.", he continued "The assassin with the remote should have been very close for it to work…"

"In the garden, maybe?", suggested Lestrade.

"No, no. Nearer. In this room.", and he knelt down.

John and the DI knelt too and looked where Sherlock was looking.

"See?", and he pointed to a minuscule black spot, hidden under the table "This is the receiver. It's very sensitive and it has got a maximum range of four metres. So the killer must have been in the room."

"But the room was locked from the inside. How could he have gone out?", inquired the DI.

Sherlock shook his head.

"No idea.", he said "I need to think. Think, Sherlock. Think!"

He closed his eyes and started to mutter something barely audible. John observed, completely fascinated. That young man would have been the death of him. Seriously. Eyes closed, in the middle of the room, black curls falling on his forehead, John swallowed as his thoughts went back in a snap to an hour earlier, when those black curls were…on him. God, he was on a crime scene and he was thinking of…he sighed and struggled to regain his focus once more.

Two minutes later Sherlock opened his eyes wide shut in delight. He had got something.

"There!", he said indicating a wall.

"There what?", was, once again, the unison question of John and Lestrade.

"The wall.", he continued "There's a …"

And he approached to it, touching it in some precise points. _Click_. A door opened out of nowhere, leaving John agape. A secret passage.

"…secret passage.", concluded the young man, grinning wryly.

"Wow.", repeated John.

"You're becoming monotonous.", teased Sherlock "And your vocabulary is proving to be quite poor."

"Yeah. Sorry. It was amazing.", John smiled.

Lestrade couldn't help but giving a puzzled look to the both of them.

"So a secrete passage.", the DI remarked.

"Yes, the killer must have hidden here, waiting for the victims to return from their holiday. This suggests that he or she is someone who has got a deep knowledge of the owners' routine and that knew about this secret passage. I bet it will take us outside."

The three men entered in it and exited right at the back of the house.

"As I was saying,", Sherlock went on "I'd say the assassin is probably someone who has worked here for a long time. We need to question every servant that works or worked here."

"We will have to wait until morning comes.", said Lestrade. "It's still six a.m."

John yawned as the sun started to appear at the horizon, filling the January air with his pale yellowish light.

They spent the whole day at Scotland Yard, Lestrade and Sherlock interrogating suspects, John half-asleep on a chair in a corridor. He drank three cups of coffee to keep himself awake. Servants, housemaids, gardeners passed. Midday arrived and John ate an insipid sandwich he bought from a vending machine. Finally, at four p.m., Sherlock announced:

"Got him!", he shouted in delight "It was the previous butler. Lestrade is going to take him into custody."

John saw the DI running outside with a group of other police officers.

"Aren't you going with them?", John inquired.

"No point in that. The killer has no idea that we are on his heels. He thought that he had done the perfect crime.", Sherlock smirked.

"There exist no perfect crime for Sherlock Holmes.", John found himself answering, almost unconsciously.

Sherlock froze on the spot, astonished. It took John two seconds to realise what he had just said and felt a bit embarrassed. Yet he added:

"And I mean it."

Sherlock smiled openly. Not one of those usual smirks and grins, but a bright satisfied smile. John's heart warmed inside his chest and smiled back, evidently blushing. Sherlock didn't seem to notice. Instead he asked:

"Mind a walk?"

John's brain stopped working properly. The answer was obviously yes, but for some strange reason he seemed unable to pronounce the word. He ended up in nodding, blushing redder and redder.

"Well, let's go then!", Sherlock said.

And the two men exited Scotland Yard and started walking aimlessly around the city.

They stayed in silence for a while. John couldn't keep his eyes off the young man, but was trying to be careful enough to not be that blatant. He observed his features one more time. The sunset light gave his black curls golden reflexes and his porcelain skin almost glittered at the touch of the winter sun. As they walked side by side there was a continuous but accidental brush of John's arm with Sherlock's, each brush sending shivers down John's spine. He could've walked like that forever, blessed with Sherlock's presence by his side.

"How did you discover who the killer was?", asked John abruptly, breaking the silence.

Sherlock smirked.

"It was quite easy, in the end. I had thought it would've been a more difficult case. Anyway, we interrogated the staff twice. Everyone seemed to love the owners and said that there had been no clashes at all between them and the family. But…a housekeeper let slip out that some people had been fired in the past. One of these people proved to be the old butler. He was accused to have stolen some jewels and fired soon after. Due to this blot on his career, he couldn't find a proper job anymore and he thus decided to kill them for revenge. He asked for help to his brother, who's an electrician, to build that mechanism and waited for the right time. He was sure that nobody would have noticed the cuts in the table and had planned to remove the receiver the following day."

John smiled.

"Unluckily for him, you stepped on the stage."

"Yes. Quite right.", Sherlock smirked wryly.

They kept on walking in silence for some other time. John remembered that it was Sherlock's birthday all of a sudden. He stayed in a pensive mood for a while, thinking about what should he say or do. Ten minutes of thinking later, he gathered all his strengths.

"And…", he said, clearing his throat "happy birthday."

Sherlock turned his head to him and fixed his aquamarine eyes into John's. John almost passed out.

"Thank you.", the young man answered calmly "I don't quite like birthdays, though."

"Can I invite you for a beer? Not for the birthday. For having solved the case.", John found himself asking, not knowing how the hell it had escaped his lips.

He waited for a negative answer. He waited for that 'no' that would have broken his heart into pieces.

"Yes, gladly.", replied the young man.

John heard the answer but didn't understand it. It was a no, he was sure it had been a no. Yet he had heard a yes. No, it was impossible. It was his mind playing with him. Obviously it was. Sherlock had said no and he had heard a yes.

"S-sorry?", he muttered in shock.

"Oh, John. As always, don't make me state the obvious one more time. I said 'yes'.", he said smiling.

John's head went blank in less than one second. He tried to rationalise, instead of listening to his hormones that were making his skin tickle like he was a bloody teenager at his first date. He was going out with Sherlock. Not on a case. He was going out with him to a pub. It was a date. John's heart started pounding so fast in his chest that he thought that Sherlock beside him could hear that.

They found a little cosy pub in a street nearby and entered. John couldn't still quite believe what was happening. They sat down at a table in a rather dark corner of the place. John sat on the chair, Sherlock leaned languidly on the sofa. No, actually he didn't do that 'languidly', but John's brain was cataloguing every small gesture in a different (and quite erotic) way in that moment. The way Sherlock removed his coat, the way he removed his scarf, the way he put his hands on the table, the way he looked around with his eyes. Everything was, in John's opinion, mind-blowing and he had to restrain himself from the urge to stretch his own hand and take Sherlock's one. Like that night on the armchair. He suddenly remembered the soft brush of Sherlock's lips on his and had to eat back a gasping sound.

"Two beers. A Cantillon and a Guinness Special Export.", the young man addressed to the waiter.

John came back to Earth, looking a bit dazed. Sherlock noticed and raised an inquiring eyebrow.

"Are you ok?"

"Yeah. Yeah. Sorry. I was…", he cleared his throat "…thinking."

Then he realised that Sherlock had just ordered his favourite beer.

"How can you possibly know about my favourite beer?"

The waiter came back with their glasses and put them on the table. John looked at Sherlock's glass. The beer he had chosen, of which John had never heard, was of a shining warm amber colour, deeply contrasting with his pale fingers. John wondered how that beer tasted, why Sherlock had chosen it, if there were memories connected with it. But Sherlock spoke and John was ripped out from his questions.

"I know what's your favourite beer like I know you've got a sister.", the young man smirked, while distractingly taking a sip.

Sherlock's rosy lips parted slightly and got a little damp, reflecting the light from the lamp on the wall behind him. John almost spitted his sip of beer both for the vision in front of his eyes and for the fact that Sherlock knew about his sister.

"And you've got a brother.", John somehow managed to tease.

Sherlock smirked at his sentence.

"And a very annoying one, I would say. It looks like we both don't like our siblings."

"How the hell do you know that too?"

"First thing first. The beer."

John stared agape.

"It's strong, dark and with a bittersweet liquorice taste. It's for a man that is either sure of his possibilities and unsure about himself. It fits your character, your way of being."

John felt the well-known sensation of being peeled deep to the bones.

"Anyway, I have to admit it was a good shot in the dark.", he grinned "About your sister. Your mobile phone told me. I noticed it's an expensive and posh one. Nothing you would've bought by your own. And it has got a name on it: Harriet. Your ex-wife? No, obviously, since you hate her you wouldn't have kept it. A family member? Yes. Mother? With that kind of phone? No. Sister then. Harriet is your sister. And an army doctor back from Afghanistan who spends the Christmas day alone and not with his sister? You don't get along at all."

John swallowed hard, overlooking the fact that Sherlock also knew about his lonely Christmas. He felt extremely embarrassed.

"You don't have to be embarrassed. I don't like my brother either!"

"Why?", asked John, while slowly sipping his beer.

"It's a rather long story. Let's say we have a different vision about life."

"How can you deduce all this things about people?", John asked.

It was a question he had had in mind for a long time.

"I observe.", replied Sherlock "Most of people just see what's around them. I take every piece of it and understand what's behind. Take the couple at your left, for example."

John slightly turned his head.

"What most people see is a young attractive female with her rather good-looking date. But I can read she's older than she looks and that she had just met the young man, who's totally unaware of her true age."

"How?", John inquired, always amazed.

Sherlock stopped for a second and took off his black jacket, revealing the purple shirt under it. It was tight. Too tight. John took a deep breath. He could almost trace the muscles, the skin, the…stop it. God, thought John, he was a grown up man with no shame, fantasising over a student. A pretty gorgeous student with whom he happened to be in love. Still he had to cool down.

"The way she moves and her hair. She's acting a part, you see? She's too theatrical in her movements, like an actress. And the hair. Young-looking styled at the moment, but under the appearance you can spot a very common and ordinary cut. She's thirty-something and pretends to be twenty."

"We could never know if it's the truth.", John teased.

"True. But you believe me."

John nodded. The beer inside his body was giving him some more courage.

"Yes, I do."

"I wonder why.", Sherlock said in an awkward tone.

"I don't know. It just…happens. And I saw you getting four, no, five criminals arrested. That does it for me."

"Yes, I guess it's a good proof."

And he started to giggle, John following immediately. And suddenly they were giggling so loud that some people turned to them. It felt so good and heart-warming that John wanted it to last forever. But, as all the good things do, it ceased.

John, a bit tipsy, stared directly at Sherlock, analysing his physical aspect after a beer. He seemed more relaxed. His icy eyes had a sparkle of happiness he had never seen in them. Even his way of sitting was different. It almost spoke of intimacy and trust.

"When did you start with the violin?", John asked, trying to distract himself from his thoughts once more.

"I started when I was six. My mother was a rather good violinist and she taught me. I hated it at first. I gave it up when I was twelve. Then I restarted when I was fifteen, as self-taught."

"You're one of the best I've ever heard."

Sherlock laughed out loud.

"You don't know a thing about classical music! I'm very far from being even good!"

"Well, I like your way of playing."

That had to be a weird statement even for Sherlock, because John noticed that his cheeks turned pink and he glanced down. John found himself smiling brighter at the sight of a slightly embarrassed Sherlock.

"And you?", the young man continued "Do you play any instrument?"

"Not really. I used to play the clarinet when I was at school. But it has been ages since then."

"I bet you were good at it.", he smiled "Your hands are good, so you must have been good."

John almost choked on his sip of beer. He felt his cheeks burning and he was sure that he was of the reddest red he had probably ever been. Sherlock smiled charmingly. Well, maybe John was imagining things, but he was rather sure that Sherlock had just charmingly smiled at him, like he was playing a game of seduction. Had the man not been Sherlock Holmes, he would have been certain of it. But maybe it was just his madly-in-love mind playing some other games.

They were both sipping their beer slowly, like they feared it to finish too soon. The Guinness John was drinking was almost warm and he was sure that Sherlock's one wasn't that cold anymore.

"Why chemistry?", John asked.

"Why the army?", Sherlock replied wryly.

"I've asked first."

"It fascinates me. You will know the essence of life if you study chemistry. It's like being a detective. You dig under the surface of things, you explore and discover their secrets. And it's useful when you're a consulting detective. Why the army, then?"

"You never surrender, do you?"

"Never.", the young man grinned.

"I can't really tell. I felt like I needed a change in my life back then. I was stuck. A monotonous job, the perfect, who turned out to be not so perfect, wife, a paved path until the old age. I wanted to do something. I had chosen medicine for the same reason. I wanted to feel…alive. Yes, that's probably the answer."

Sherlock smirked.

"The danger, John. You've chosen it because it was dangerous."

John nodded firmly.

"And yet you're a professor now…"

"I'm doing a favour to a friend."

"Quite the contrary, John. Quite the contrary. Stamford has done a big favour to you."

Had John been not in that situation, not that tipsy, he would have denied it strongly. But in that situation he knew it was the truth and he couldn't help but nodding one more time.

"As always, you're right."

He would have really never admitted it, but Mike had done him a big favour in giving him that job. If that hadn't happened, John couldn't imagine where he would have been now. Probably under a bridge drinking his sadness away. Instead, he was in a pub with a man he was in love with. And he wasn't even gay! He just happened to love a man called Sherlock Holmes. A student, a rational voice in the back of his head said. He didn't pay attention.

Five minutes later they had both finished their glass. They had spent one hour in that place. John paid for him and for Sherlock, and they stepped outside. It was dark, but not completely. On the horizon there were still stripes of a red sunset. A cold wind had started to blow and John chattered his teeth. Sherlock turned his collar up and buried his chin into the scarf. He looked more mysterious that way, since the eyes stood out more.

"I'm accompanying you home.", John immediately said, wanting their closeness to last for a while.

"Let's walk then."

John had thought that Sherlock would have hailed a taxi. Except that he didn't, and now they were walking side by side to Baker Street. It wasn't very far away, but far enough to enjoy the young man's company for some more time. They stayed silent during the whole walk, since it was too cold to speak without lips getting dry and without coughing for the freezing air reaching the throat.

When they finally reached Baker Street, John felt sad. It had been such a good evening he didn't want to part from Sherlock. Not when, for the first time, there had been a rather normal conversation between them. Not when John had still things to say. Not when he didn't want to leave at all.

They stopped in front of the door. Sherlock pulled off the scarf from his mouth.

"Thank you for the beer.", he said "It was a nice evening."

"Thank you too.", replied John "And happy birthday again."

Yet neither John nor Sherlock moved. John found himself staring at Sherlock's lips more than he intended to. And one moment before he was fifty centimetres away from the young man's face and two seconds later he was pressing his lips against Sherlock's. It was a light brush at first. A tentative, clumsy attempt. Sherlock didn't seem to move and John was almost ready to step back, when he felt the young man's lips slightly parting. John slowly slid his tongue in, doubting it was the reality. He felt the warm mouth of Sherlock, his wet tongue, his taste. He tasted of the beer he had just drunk, of cigarette, of tea and of mystery. Yes, mystery wasn't a taste, but Sherlock tasted of it. He began to move his tongue inside the other man's mouth and Sherlock reciprocated. The two tongues twisted, intertwined, sucked, explored, devoured. John wanted to taste more, wanted to get more, wanted everything from that kiss. It was thousand times better than the kisses he had shared with Sherlock in his dreams, for it was hotter, for it was stronger, for it was real. Sherlock's wet lips danced against John's. John's raised his hands and put them in those black, soft curls he had dreamed about for a long time, closing more and more the space between them. It was like being in heaven. The kiss became a seal of passion, almost carnivorous, lascivious.

Then it all stopped. Sherlock abruptly broke the kiss and looked at John in the eyes. It seemed to John that a cold veil had fallen once again on the young man. His aquamarine eyes were deadly freezing as he spoke.

"You were right, John.", he said in a deep, cold voice "This is wrong."

And he turned away, entering his flat and closing the door, leaving behind a more than a broken John.

* * *

**AN pt.2: **

**Bits of explanations:**

**Sherlock's birthday: it is conventionally believed (there are people who did this kind of researches) that Sherlock Holmes's birthday is on 6th January, therefore I've decided to use this date as well.**

**Last note: I'm so sorry. Really.**


	21. A March In Danger

**AN: bonjour/good morning to everyone who's reading this!**

**I have to say that I'm extremely flattered by all your lovely comments and that I'm so happy that you're liking it! You are all warming my heart 3**

**But let's already stop with the thanking part...enjoy the new chapter! :)**

* * *

John somehow managed to reach his flat. Everything was so blurry in his head that he was barely able to remember that he had hailed a taxi home. All he felt was emptiness. But not the normal emptiness he had felt during the previous months when he had no idea whether Sherlock liked him or not. This was a deep black hole of emptiness, the one in which everything was sucked. He didn't even know how his body could move since he was sure he had no control over it.

He opened the front door of his flat in a state akin to a dream, for he was sure it had been a dream. The whole day had been a dream and he had just imagined everything. He dragged himself into his bedroom and forced himself to close his eyes, to go back to sleep so he could wake up later with the acknowledgment that nothing had happened. Nothing at all. He pretended to sleep for a while, trying to focus on different thoughts. But sleep didn't come and he had to face that it hadn't been just a dream.

He could replay everything perfectly in his mind: the pub, the beer, the friendly conversation, the walk home, the…kiss. He could replay the kiss better than everything else. The soft touch of those lips he had so longed for, the wetness of Sherlock's tongue, the love he had put into it. And Sherlock had reciprocated. And then that wet blanket. 'That is wrong'. And Sherlock closing the door behind his back. And John standing there, empty. Why had it happened? John asked himself while rolling into the bed, desperately trying to hold back tears that were already forming down in his throat. He had no possible explanation for that. And every time he tried to give one, he only managed to feel so bad he could barely maintain himself lucid.

'That is wrong.'. What was wrong? Was it wrong because Sherlock was a student and he was a professor? It could've been a possibility if Sherlock hadn't been Sherlock. It had been him who had stated that formalities were boring, it had been him who had made John cross a million boundaries. It had been him who had kissed him first, months earlier. Was it a payback for that? Had Sherlock done this because John had refused him back then? No, it was very unlikely. It didn't fit Sherlock's character. So, what was wrong in that? What were the reasons under it, if there were any, actually? Why had he said that?

John felt extremely vulnerable and wrecked. His certainties had just been thrown away one more time. He, the man who hardly gave trust to anyone, had trusted Sherlock. He, the man who hardly had any friends, had considered Sherlock a friend. He, who for a whole evening and a three minutes kiss had thought that his feelings were reciprocated, was at a loss. With everything.

He got up from the bed and literally ripped his clothes off, as if he wanted to get rid of the smell, the touch, the warmth of the other man. He opened the shower and threw himself under the hot stream of water. The lump in his throat grew second by second and he felt like his chest was being cut open and his heart was being punched through the rib cage. He inhaled and exhaled deeply under the water, trying to let that feeling go away. He wasn't able to.

John screamed. In the silence of his small flat, his shout echoed loud.

"Fuck!"

He said, while punching the tile with his right hand.

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"

He repeated, while doing the same. He wanted to transfer the pain in his chest to his hand. He wanted it to ache and ache and ache until he could feel nothing else, until the emptiness had transformed in blood.

At the end his knuckles were red, but the pain didn't diminish. He let himself drop on the shower floor, water pouring on his face where the tears had started to run. He buried his head into his hands, slowly sobbing his sorrow away. He stayed there until he had no more tears to cry. When he got up, he felt weak, his legs barely managing to hold him upright. He took a towel and dried himself a bit, before throwing himself on the bed again, drained and lonely, the loneliest he had ever been in his whole life.

Later, while still questioning himself about the whole matter, he picked up his phone and, almost unaware of what he was doing, he sent a text message to Sherlock.

_Why?_

The answer never came.

Two months later nothing had changed.

He was still feeling the pain. It was soothing but John could feel it grow stronger now and then. It came when he least expected it: when he was in the shower, or when he did the shopping, or when he cooked. It was there. He had wished for that stupid sentiment to go away, but it hadn't. He had learnt to live with it day by day. There were days when he almost forgot about it, but they were rare. And there were other days where all he could think about was that damn 6th January.

After that day, there had been no more messages from the young man, no unexpected visits to his flat, no new cases. Yet Sherlock hadn't missed a single lesson of his at the university. Every day he was there, sitting on his chair, barely paying attention to the world around him. It gave John contrasting feelings: a mix of sadness and hope that he couldn't really classify, that he couldn't really get rid of. Nevertheless, Sherlock was there and, somehow, that was all John needed while doing his lessons. For he knew he wouldn't have been able to watch that empty spot in the last row another time.

But he would never have admitted that he missed Sherlock, the Sherlock he had known, more than everything else in his life.

That morning John woke up exhausted, like he hadn't slept at all. He had the impression he had dreamt about something that had troubled his sleep, but he couldn't quite remember what it had been. Usually he could retrieve his dreams easily, but this time he was just extremely confused.

He got up five minutes later, prepared and ate his breakfast, then got ready for another Monday lesson at the university.

It was a very nice day of March. The sun was shining in a crystal clear blue sky and it looked more like a day of mid-spring, instead than a late winter one. Some buds were already starting to grow on the naked branches of the trees which gifted the city with a joyful atmosphere of rebirth. A sweet breeze coming from the sea blew through the streets and gave the air a lively smell of distant lands and remote places.

The environment contrasted a lot with John's state of mind, but he enjoyed it nevertheless. It was the start of a new cycle of the year and he somehow desired that it would have meant a new cycle for him too or, at least, that it could have helped him forget his sorrow. He wasn't asking anything difficult. Just to be serene. Just to be finally at ease with the whole world. For John wasn't an easy man to go along with and he was starting to think that the only person who really understood and liked him had been the young man. This thought, which had started to take form in his mind, was the saddest of all and he desperately tried, not succeeding, to lock it away.

The only good thing was that students were keeping him really busy during those months: people asking for advice, people asking for help, people just asking questions about everything. That gave John the opportunity to distract himself a bit more and not think about what was still happening inside his heart.

At ten o'clock, on time as always, he stepped into the classroom, he waited for the students to sit down and started his lesson. He didn't, as he had used to, keep his eyes fixed on Sherlock for the whole lesson anymore, because it made him uncomfortable and he was sure that the young man would have analysed his thoughts just from that futile gesture. But now and then he gazed at the last row, certain that he would have found those soft black curls. Yet that day of March the spot proved to be empty and John's mind went blank.

"And…"

He was explaining something. What was he explaining? Words, knowledge, everything disappeared from his mind in the blink of an eye. Sherlock wasn't there. After two months of constant presence, the chair was empty. Sadly empty. And John had to fight hard to restart thinking properly.

"…the oxides will react with…"

With what? Why Sherlock wasn't here?

"…the alkaline…"

Alkaline? Alkaline what? Where was the young man?

His mobile phone buzzed insistently from his pocket. He ignored it, while trying to resume what he was explaining. The mobile stopped, then started again. He hated when students took theirs out to check for messages or calls. He had never said it out loud but he found the behaviour disrespectful, so he tried to resist the urge to answer the call. Yet, when it buzzed for the fourth time, he couldn't reject it anymore. He took it out from the pocket, wondering who the hell was so impatient to speak with him in the middle of a lesson. As he read the name, he had to lean his hand on the table to keep himself upright. Lestrade. Why was Lestrade calling him?

"Sorry…", he muttered to the students who were all watching him.

Then he took the call.

"Lestrade?", he asked hesitantly.

"John!", the DI answered, voice slightly cracked "I'm sorry to disturb you but…Sherlock has disappeared since Friday."

John's vision went white and he was more than certain that he was about to faint right there in front of his students. A wheeze came out of his mouth, like he had been stabbed right through the heart. The DI wouldn't have called him if it hadn't been something serious. He swallowed.

"W-what have you just said?", he managed to keep his voice low.

"He has disappeared and I'm starting to fear he's in great danger…"

This time John couldn't stop himself from screaming.

"Fuck!"

Lestrade stayed silent. The whole classroom flinched on their chairs. John had never shouted, but now it was no time to think about it. All he was able to think about were two words: Sherlock, danger. Everything else didn't count.

"I'm coming to you!", John said, already grabbing his jacket and his briefcase.

"I only wanted to inform you, it's not necessary that…"

John didn't even listen.

"I've said I'm coming."

And he closed the call.

"Fuck!", he said out loud one more time, some fifty students looking at him in astonishment "Sorry, it's an emergency…", he managed to say "…I need to go…lesson suspended."

And having said that, he stormed off the classroom, running to the exit of the building, while the corridors echoed of his perpetual chorus of 'fucks' and 'damns'. He hailed a taxi to Scotland Yard. It seemed to John that the cabby drove so slowly that he would've reached the location faster, if he had run there. The heart in his chest, on the contrary, was racing and pounding like a heard of galloping horses. He was finding it difficult to think, to reason, to breathe. Everything around went blurry and he had no idea why he was still perfectly able to keep himself conscious, despite all his vital functions failing him. For he was totally sure that there was nothing left in his body, except pain. Not a dark, sorrowful pain this time. It was a burning one, that cut his way through flesh and bones, that devoured him from the deepest depth of his body to the outside, that filled every cell, slowly leaving a pile of ashes behind. It burnt and burnt.

His head was full of questions he had no answer for: 'what was happening?' and 'where was Sherlock?' the two prominent ones.

Pain intertwined with fear during that endless ride to Scotland Yard. If Lestrade had called him to inform him about that, he was absolutely sure that his concern wasn't in vain. What if Sherlock was…? No, he couldn't be. But what if he was…? No, he couldn't be. But what if…? He didn't want to think about any of the possibilities that were popping in his head. He started sweating and his whole body was shaking. When the taxi finally stopped, John barely managed to plead his knees to resist and not let him fall on the pavement. They did, but John really didn't know for how long he could keep moving in that state.

He had to inhale and exhale deeply to help the blood reach his brain one more time. He entered in the building of Scotland Yard like a fury, blindingly walking to Lestrade's office, not noticing all the gazes of the various employees fixed on him. He reached it two minutes later. He saw the DI through the glass door talking with two policemen and patiently (not really) waited for him to finish. Lestrade noticed him and nodded, answering John's silent question: _is this all about him?_

Two minutes later the two men left the room and John entered, feeling every step he was taking harder to do. His mouth went cotton dry as soon as he crossed the threshold and suddenly he had to fight back the urge to run away, not wanting to know the truth.

He stared at Lestrade, eyes burning with a confusion of doubt, pain and anger.

"John…", the DI started "you shouldn't have come."

"What has happened?" , he shot point blank.

Lestrade seemed to gather his thoughts before speaking, like he didn't know himself what was going on.

"Two weeks ago I called Sherlock for a case…", he exhaled, trying to avoid John's pressing gaze "that involved a very dangerous drug traffic."

John held his breath.

"I needed his help. I've been on this case for three months and the maximum I have got from my investigation were three useless pushers, but I needed their boss. They hadn't the chance to say anything useful. They got killed as soon as they stepped into prison. I only managed to apprehend their boss's nickname: Viper. He is almost invisible and he is extremely cruel. He kills everyone who has the disgrace to cross him and he has already killed four policemen in cold blood. I really didn't know where to bang my head on anymore. Hence, two weeks ago, I asked Sherlock for help."

John was listening in a state between a dream and a nightmare. He felt his feet hammered to the floor and his head suspended in the outer space. He was listening and not listening at the same time, anger, fear, pain rumbling in his ears louder than Lestrade's words. Yet he didn't say anything and kept on listening..

"I handed him the case and he started working on it. In less than one week he had gathered proofs I haven't been able to find in a three months' work. I advised him it was a very dangerous job, but he assured me he would have been careful. And he was. He always called me to inform me about every new piece of information he had, he dropped at Scotland Yard, I went to his flat. Then on Friday morning he called to tell me he probably had the right name and asked to meet that afternoon in Hyde Park. I went there and he didn't come. I thought it wasn't normal, that there was something wrong, but, you know, it wasn't the first time he didn't came to an appointment. Since then I had no news from him. And sincerely I believe that the Viper has something to do with this …"

John swallowed everything with a calm that was well hiding his rage. When the DI finished, John couldn't force himself to be quiet anymore.

"So you're _basically_ telling me that you have given Sherlock a case on one of the most dangerous criminal of London?", he shouted, making Lestrade jump on his chair.

"I didn't think…it wasn't the first time! It's not the first time that Sherlock deals with criminals of that sort!"

"_Four! Four _policeman dead! And you've just let him investigate alone!"

Lestrade stood up and planted his fists on his desk.

"He wasn't alone! He knew it was dangerous and he agreed with it!"

John leaned on the desk with his fists too.

"Four _bloody _days and you haven't managed to find him! _Four days_!"

"I have a whole squad on it, but it's not like we could go around and just ask: 'sorry do you happen to know where a drug lord may have taken a young man?'! It doesn't happen like that! It takes time!"

"Time! _Time_!", roared John, whose hands were itching with the urge to punch the DI "By the time you'll discover it he might as well as be already dead!"

Just the sound of the word 'dead' made John shiver. He felt the very well-known lump in his throat pressing on his chest, his sternum squeezing the heart behind, his lungs barely able to keep him constantly breathing.

"I know!", screamed louder the DI "I _bloody _well know!"

"If you had known, you wouldn't have let him go through such danger!"

"I'm _fucking_ aware of it, John! I'm _so fucking_ aware! And don't think I'm not caring about it! Don't think for one second that I'm not blaming myself for it!"

As Lestrade said the last sentence, silence fell. Both of them were panting and looking into each other's eyes, both of them broken and both of them wanting to go back in time and avoid what was happening at that moment.

John's rage slowly quieted down and he let himself drop on the chair in front of the DI. He didn't know what to say, what to do, what to think. He was hollow, empty, blank. He was drained of everything that counted. The DI went on.

"I can assure you, John, that I'm doing my best to find Sherlock, to bring him back…", his voice sounded feeble and lost.

John nodded as a sign of understanding.

"I know.", he eventually exhaled "I know you're doing your job at your best."

Lestrade gave him a puzzled look.

"Thanks.", he said, collapsing on his chair again.

"And sorry.", John continued "I shouldn't have got this mad at you. You barely have any fault."

"No. You were right. I shouldn't have given him the case. I knew how dangerous it could have been."

"But you couldn't imagine that this would have happened."

"I should have."

John shrugged his shoulders and hesitantly smiled.

"It could have been worse."

"How?", asked the DI "Isn't this the worst of the worst?"

John shook his head.

"No, he could have been on a case on his own. At least we know who has done that."

"That doesn't make me feel better at all."

"Plus", added John, pointing at Lestrade "he's got a great friend helping him."

Lestrade tentatively smiled back.

"If that 'friend' means you, I'm going to agree.", the DI said, teasingly.

"Then there are two friends helping him.", John said "Even it's a one-sided friendship, I think. But who cares?"

And John didn't really care about anything at the moment, but having Sherlock alive and unharmed.

"Yeah.", answered Lestrade "You're right about everything."

"So…what now?", asked John.

A glimpse of resolution crossed the DI's eyes.

"We're going to save him!", he said, standing up.

"Obviously we're going to save him!", answered John.

"Let's go then!"

"Where to?"

"Sherlock's place…he's got all the useful files there. We need to start from the beginning."

And they walked out of the office, aimed to 221B Baker Street, both ready to go through fire and death to save Sherlock Holmes.


	22. Trust Me, I Trust You

**AN: **

**Good morning everyone!**

**Before you read the chapter, I have to warn you: torture. Not a great deal of it and not really depictive, but there is.**

**You have been warned.**

**Nevertheless, thank you all for your constant support. I love you all!**

* * *

They jumped into a police car and Lestrade started to drive as fast as he could. The ride to Sherlock's flat filled John with memories of the last time he had been there. Christmas evening. He could remember it perfectly: the desire of seeing Sherlock and the disappointment of not having found him at home. Oceans had passed under the bridge of his life since then. Oceans of pain, loss, suffering. Oceans of hope, joy, love. And there was another ocean made by desperation and fear. What could they do? What if it was already too late?

He was trying to keep a straight face in front of the DI, but metre by metre John found it harder and harder. His heart was hammering inside his chest and his echo resounded in John's ears that much that even if Lestrade was talking to him, he could barely catch some word amid the noise of his worry.

They arrived at 221B Baker Street fifteen minutes later, with Lestrade swearing against the goddamn traffic of Monday morning. At the sight of the blue door, John felt weak.

The DI knocked at the door and three seconds later the same old lady John had met on Christmas day appeared at the threshold.

"Lestrade! Any news?", she asked in an overly worried tone.

Lestrade shook his head sadly.

"Mrs. Hudson,", he then continued "this is John Watson, he's…"

"Sherlock's friend.", the old lady answered, stretching his arm to shake John's hand "We've already met. But nice to know your name."

John nodded and greeted the woman with a half-smile.

"Nice to meet you too, Mrs. Hudson."

Lestrade gave him a puzzled look while they started to climb upstairs.

"We'll be in Sherlock's flat to see if we can find some clues.", shouted the DI.

"I hope you will, dear.", Mrs. Hudson answered from below "I hope you will find Sherlock soon."

"We will.", John found himself answering, then lowered his voice, as he was speaking only to himself "I will find you for sure, Sherlock."

When John entered Sherlock's flat, he had a fit. He had already been inside once, but somehow the memory of the day when he had been dragged there by Sherlock because of his drunkenness had faded away. But now it hit him as if someone had just punched him right in his stomach. Obviously the night he had been drunk he hadn't had the chance to take a look at the flat around him. Yet bits of memories of the place started to fill his mind.

He remembered the windows on the opposite wall, dusky back then and extremely bright now. He remembered the corridor that led to the bathroom to his left, a blurry idea of a narrow passage back then and a comfortable place now. He remembered the sofa where Sherlock had been sitting, a dark shape in the darkness back then and a shining brown leather one now in the light of the day. It was all different and all the identical at the same time. There was John Watson walking in it in two different moments of his life, but those two moments intertwined as he took his first steps. The past and the present joined together by Sherlock Holmes.

Lost in his thoughts, he barely heard the DI speaking.

"You've already been there, then."

"W-what? Sorry, I wasn't following…"

"You've already been there. You know Mrs. Hudson."

"Yes. I told you about it, remember? The night when I've been drunk and Sherlock…", he sighed at the name "…sort of took care of me."

"Oh yes. Sorry, I had totally forgotten about that."

"Well, it wasn't very important. I came here a second time, though.", he smiled.

"When?", asked the DI while leaning on a table with piles of documents.

"On Christmas…I wanted to…", he cleared his throat "…wish him a merry Christmas. He wasn't in and that's when I met Mrs. Hudson."

Lestrade gave him a questioning look, but smiled.

John couldn't just tell Lestrade that he had come to Baker Street because Sherlock had given him a gun as a Christmas present and he had wanted to see the young man because he was in love with him. Mainly because it wasn't really the best moment to say that, but also because he didn't want Lestrade to die of heart failure right in front of his eyes. He held back a giggle at the thought. God, he didn't mean to think about such a silly thing in a such dark moment, but he eventually realised that it was his nervousness coming out. He was as tense as a violin string and he felt like he couldn't keep all his emotions inside anymore. He wanted to laugh, to cry, to scream, to stay silent, to run, to jump at the same time. He wanted the anguish he was feeling trapped inside his heart erupt in those gestures. Instead he stayed motionless looking around the room.

There was chaos. No, chaos wasn't the correct term for it. It was more than chaos. He suddenly found himself asking how such a great mind like Sherlock's could live in such a confusion. There were things everywhere: documents, files, papers, boxes, plastic bags, cushions. And he was sure that it had been tidier when he had been there the first time. Maybe it was so chaotic because he had been on a case and he had no time to clean it up.

"Here are the papers I gave him.", said Lestrade interrupting once again his thoughts.

John approached and noticed a great ensemble of lab equipment on the kitchen table.

"I think we'll have to reread them all,", went on the DI "since Sherlock probably got his name from these."

"We aren't him.", said John, slightly discouraged, suddenly aware that neither him nor Lestrade had the young man's brain.

"Yes, but we are two and we can't give up, right?"

"Obviously we can't give up.", and he smiled faintly to the DI.

It was so blatant to John that, despite everything they were doing in that moment, both of them were going through various states of mind. They were mostly desperately trying to persuade themselves that they would've been able to track down the man. They desired it with all their hearts. Yet at the same time they were well conscious that they probably had a very small chance. It was a game of nerves and it was like going on a rollercoaster. The more time passed, the less the chances. Lestrade handed him a bunch of files. John took them and sat on the armchair, starting to read the first page. It was the transcription of an interrogatory. He read through it.

The questioned man had stated that he didn't know the real name of the drug dealer called the Viper. He had stated he had never seen him directly. He had stated that he didn't know he was that dangerous. John had never seen a sequence of lies that clear. How could one be a pusher and have never seen the person who supplied him? He was sure that he would've talked soon if the police had interrogated him one more time. But he had been killed the following day. How that could have happened, no one seemed to know. John turned to Lestrade, who was reading another file.

"How is this possible?"

The DI furrowed.

"I mean: a prisoner gets killed in jail and nobody saw anything. And he was alone in his cell the whole night! And the CCTV didn't register anything either…how can something like this happen?"

Lestrade heavily sighed.

"I suspect there's a mole in Scotland Yard. And probably one of the guards of the prison, if not more than one, is on Viper's pay roll."

John gawked.

"It's not that rare. Especially with someone like him.", the DI explained, shrugging his shoulders "That's why I preferred staying here instead that at Scotland Yard. One can never know."

"Don't you trust your own squad?", asked John.

"I do and I don't. Most of them are over-qualified people I trust with my life, but I do wonder sometimes…"

And he glanced down at the files, resuming his reading. John understood and took the second document.

This time it was the description of one of the four killings of the policemen. Just the report of it made John shiver. He was found with his throat cut from side to side and his stomach sliced open. Christ. And Sherlock was in the hands of such a bloody psychopath, ready to do everything to keep his drug dealing business safe. He felt like he was going to vomit his soul. Abruptly he got up and went to the bathroom. He took a handful of water from the sink and splashed it on his face. Sherlock in the hands of a criminal, Sherlock in pain, Sherlock dead. That was what all his mind was able to process.

_Stop it. Damn, STOP IT. Shut up!_

He yelled at his thoughts to silence them. Sherlock was in the hands of a criminal, yes. But he was Sherlock and surely he wasn't dead. No, he wasn't dead. He was alive. He was sure of that. Despite his whole body shaking, he managed to calm himself down once more. He returned to the living room white as a sheet. Lestrade gave him a look, but said nothing. John knew he understood.

He took the file back in his hands and continued to read.

By midday he had read dozens of files and everything didn't seem to have any sense at all. If Sherlock had guessed the name from them, John couldn't really realise how. To him they were just a bunch of useless information around nothing.

"Got anything?", he asked Lestrade at some point.

"Not really. The more I read these, the more I think we have got nothing."

"Maybe Sherlock knew something and he didn't tell you."

"Could be. But he was very meticulous this time. He had always been in contact with me and called me every time he needed some more information or had questions. So everything he had is here."

John took another file. Later there was a knock at the door.

"Can I come in?", Mrs. Hudson asked.

"Of course.", answered John.

The old lady entered the flat with a tray with two sandwiches and two glasses of water.

"I thought you two might be hungry.", she said as she put down the food on the coffee table next to John.

John wasn't really hungry, but he thanked the woman nevertheless. She smiled happily and bolted off. Lestrade took a sandwich in his hand and began to eat it voraciously. Yet he didn't stop looking at the paper he was reading.

"Hungry?", John asked to Lestrade, putting down another file and taking up the next one.

"Starving. I haven't eaten for...some fifteen hours."

The DI ended up eating John's lunch too. John couldn't care. His stomach wouldn't have accepted anything.

The afternoon passed slowly. John read all the possible files, discussed with Greg about all the possibilities, but neither of them came up with something even slightly useful. Everything seemed to bring to a dead end. Around three o'clock it had seemed they had had something concrete. Some homeless people had been questioned about the killing of a policeman that had happened in a dark alley one year before. One of them had described a suspicious person that had often come there, but he couldn't give an accurate description of him. The only thing he remembered was that he had very long hands with a ring in the shape of a snake. They had guessed that, probably, his nickname came from there. They tried to think how they could find someone with that ring, but it was impossible. Millions of Londoners and non could have a similar ring. They felt discouraged one more time.

In the evening Mrs. Hudson came up with some turkey and salad and placed it on the coffee table. John looked at it in silence. Neither him nor the DI ate this time. They just kept reading and reading and reading. Nothing. They had nothing. John could quote half of the files by heart and there was nothing useful in them. Not a single word that could have helped them.

And time passed. And Sherlock was still in the hands of that criminal. And John was at a loss with himself.

At ten o'clock, after having read the same file for the third time, he raised his head to speak to Lestrade.

"This is… madness. There's nothing on this. Whatever Sherlock got, I don't know…"

The DI didn't answer and it took John some seconds to notice that the other man had fallen asleep on the chair he was sitting on. He was softly snoring. John couldn't blame him. He had probably been awake for four days and the tension had been killing him. He, himself, was more than exhausted. Nevertheless he didn't want to fall asleep and thus decided to go for a walk.

Outside, the weather was still nice. A fresh breeze welcomed him and drove away some of his drowsiness. He started to roam around Baker Street, not wanting to go too far away from it, in case Lestrade texted or called him with some news.

He felt useless. Sherlock was somewhere in London, probably hurt or worse (no, he had already told himself that he shouldn't think about that option), and he, John Watson, was simply walking to and fro in almost empty streets. He didn't want to meet people, so he carefully avoided the crowded places and kept on walking. What were they missing? Because it was obvious that he and Lestrade were missing something. Did Sherlock know something that made him understand the name of the drug dealer? Something not incredibly immediate, something subtle, something that only Sherlock could have guessed. He sighed. He was no Sherlock. Yet he had to try. He stopped in the middle of the road.

"Think, John, think!", he said aloud "You're missing something, something obvious, something you saw on those files, but you didn't pay attention…"

He read mentally most of the files one more time. Nothing.

"No, there must be something. There _must_ be.", he forced himself "What Sherlock always says?"

_You see, but you don't observe._

The words appeared in his brain like they were sculpted in gold.

"I saw. I saw something. I didn't observe. Something that caught my attention. But I saw it, I didn't observe. Observe now, John! For the fuck's sake, observe!"

The document on which he had stopped. The one and only detail they had about the possible identity of the Viper. The ring. A silver ring. A silver ring in the shape of a snake. A silver ring with eyes made of diamonds. No, wait. In the report there hadn't been written anything about eyes made of diamonds. Then why he had just imagined it? Maybe he was fantasising, maybe he was starting to see things that didn't exist, hoping they were clues. Except that he could figure out how the ring was quite well. Long, lean slightly tanned fingers. A ring on the middle. It was not a silver ring, it was a white gold one. With diamonds as eyes. He had seen it. He wasn't just imagining. He had seen it. Somewhere in the back of his head, something snapped: a hand with that ring on a white tablecloth, a candle in the middle of the table. Laura. Laura Collins had a snake-shaped ring. A white gold snake-shaped ring. A white gold snake-shaped ring with diamonds.

No, it couldn't be. It wasn't the same ring. He was just going crazy. Yet there was something else. Something wrong in the whole scheme. Something he…_hadn't observed_. The clothes. Expensive clothes. Laura had very expensive clothes. Too expensive for a young teacher like her. And she had got many of them. No, it couldn't be. It _just_ couldn't be.

Yet he was already hailing a taxi to his flat. He needed the gun.

During the ride his thoughts span so fast he couldn't follow them anymore. Laura Collins was the boss of one of the greatest drug dealing traffic in the whole London area. Impossible. Still, the more John Watson thought about it, the more it became the truth. He could have been wrong, but it was the only thing he had. Probably Sherlock had remembered it too, probably he had thought about it for a whole day, probably she had kidnapped him. They had all supposed that the Viper was a man. Fools. A viper could have only been a woman. Now he had to think about where she could have brought him. At her flat? No, too obvious. Far too obvious.

"Think, John, think!", he repeated.

The cabby gave him a puzzled look from the rear-view mirror.

And just as he had got the ring part, he had got the place. Laura owned a small house in Essendon, inheritance from her grandmother. She had spoken about it during one of their dates. She had said that nobody lived there anymore and that it was empty and almost in ruin. She had even said the address. If he were right, Sherlock would be there. Hopefully alive.

As the taxi stopped, he rushed upstairs, took the gun from the drawer in his bedroom and got into the taxi again. He gave the cabby the address. One hour at least to get there. He hoped for the traffic to not be chaotic, he hoped for the taxi to go at the speed of the light, he hoped for the time to stop. Because the clock was still ticking. Lost in his fears and in his anxiety, he had completely forgotten to inform Lestrade.

He remembered it all of a sudden when he was already two metres away from the house. He quickly texted the address to the DI, for he didn't want to make the minimum amount of noise. His experience at war would have proven useful in this situation. He entered the house without waiting the DI's answer. He carefully moved in the darkness. He heard a voice. Laura's voice. If, until that moment, he had still his doubts, now everything became the reality. She was upstairs and talking with someone who was not answering.

"Haven't you suffered enough yet?"

John held his breath while slowly and silently climbing the steps.

"I'm asking you!", she yelled "Haven't you suffered enough yet, Holmes?"

"No.", came a firm, yet broken answer.

Sherlock's voice. John's heart almost collapsed. Whatever was happening he had come on time. Sherlock was alive. He stepped the last step of the stairs. In the room on the left he saw the dark figure of Laura. She had her back turned away from John. He could see her blonde hair. Her damn blonde long hair. She was leaning, a knife in her hand, on a lightened up pale figure tied up to a chair. Sherlock.

The sight of him in that situation made John suffer. He was paler than usual and he seemed somehow older. His dark curls were flat around his face and his eyes were half-shut. John could hear his irregular breath too. But what shocked John the most was Sherlock's chest. The shirt was open and rolled to the elbows, different cuts were visible on the pale skin. John's anger rose and rose at every cut or bruise he could spot Sherlock's body.

"You…you're the origin of everything…", she kept on.

Her voice was so different now, John thought, it wasn't sugary and soft. It was cold, dead cold.

"You sent the man I loved to prison, you made me suffer..."

"He deserved to go to prison…", Sherlock smiled wickedly "He is a criminal!"

Slap. Laura slapped him with her hand. A small drop of blood ran on Sherlock's cheek. John froze.

"But I didn't know who you were back then…I didn't know who sent him to prison three years ago…I took his place as the Viper…I was good, very good…"

"Hadn't we had this conversation other three times in these days? It's getting boring…", Sherlock teased.

John thought for a second whether Sherlock was completely mad or what. He was literally provoking her. Yet he was still alive. John was almost paralysed.

"Silence!", she shouted "The business grew. I made friends, important friends. It was all going so well. But I didn't have a name. I didn't have the name of the man that imprisoned my Al. I had to keep up with the appearance. Chemistry professor. Perfect. I could experiment with new drugs and I was above any suspect…it was so unrewarding…two years like that…faking and pretending…"

"You were a great actress…"

_God, Sherlock, close your damn mouth_. John should have shot. Yet he couldn't. He kept listening.

"Then I found a good man. John. I thought that I could have changed for him. I liked him…", she said in a sort of chant "…but a man called Sherlock Holmes took him away! You took him away too! Still, I didn't know who you were…"

"You could've asked…"

Slap. Another hit. Sherlock coughed and some blood came out from his mouth.

"…so I became crueller, more vicious…people needed to suffer as I did…", she hissed, but still in a lulling tone "…then someone advised me that the police was trying to get the Viper…they called a detective to investigate…and then I discovered it was the same detective that had sent to prison my Al, the same that had taken John from me…you!"

"Are we done?"

Slap. This one hit harder. Sherlock turned his face.

"I'm going to make you suffer…slowly…I'm going to make you pay for everything…"

And she moved the knife closer to the body of Sherlock. It was the moment when John finally managed to move. It took him a great effort to make his legs cooperate. He took three steps, but a board of the floor creaked. Before John could notice, Laura had turned to him, pulled out a gun and shot. John barely managed to avoid the bullet by completely leaning on the wall. At the same time Sherlock took his chance. John didn't know how, but he managed to stand up and take a step towards her. She noticed the movement and pointed the gun directly to Sherlock. And shot.

Everything happened in slow-motion. The bullet exiting from the silver gun, the bullet hitting Sherlock in his shoulder , Sherlock falling down on his back on the ground.

All John heard was the bang of the bullet, the sensation of the cold metal cutting through the live flesh, his voice screaming.

"Sherlock!"

He didn't think. Before she could even turn, John had already shot two times. She dropped on the floor, dead. John almost didn't realise what he had just done. He ran to Sherlock, already with the phone in his hand.

He knelt on the floor. Sherlock was lying there, blood exiting from the wound, but still alive. He mentally cursed himself for not having called Lestrade first. But it was no time for remorse.

"Sherlock!", he shouted "Are you alright?"

Stupid question, he intimately smacked himself for having even thought about it. The young man slightly opened his eyes.

"Yes…I'm…fine…", he tentatively answered, smirking.

"You aren't fine…", John smiled back, caringly, a tear running down his face "But don't worry, I'm calling an ambulance now. Everything will be fine."

And he quickly started to tap the nine-nine-nine on the phone.

"No, John, please!", came the cracked, but firm voice of the young man.

"What?"

"Not the…ambulance…", Sherlock groaned in pain.

"Sherlock, you have a bullet in your shoulder…it's really _not_ the time to have a tantrum!"

And he pressed his left hand on the wound, trying to slow the bleeding down, while he called the A&E.

"Emergency at 7 Rectory Close, Essendon. Wounded man. Bullet in his left shoulder. I'm a doctor…but be quick! The man is debilitated too and needs immediate help!", he yelled , quite panicking.

When he closed the call, Sherlock was still looking at him.

"It's always the left…", he groaned, while trying to smile.

"Yes.", was all John could answer.

Sherlock closed his eyes.

"No, Sherlock. Don't close your eyes.", he said and slowly caressed Sherlock's curls "Stay with me, listen to my voice!"

He reopened the eyes and looked at John. Sirens, sirens in the distance. John sighed.

"I don't like…hospitals…", the young man lamented.

"I know, Sherlock, I know. But you need it now. Trust me."

The blood of the young man was burning like fire on John's hand. He could feel the pulse slowing down and the sticky sensation of the red liquid. He exhaled.

"I…trust you, John.", said Sherlock, firmly this time "Thanks."

"For what?", smiled John, crying.

"For having come.", he murmured in a feeble whisper "You always do."

"Of course I do, you daft."

Then Sherlock passed out and John panicked.

* * *

**AN pt.2: Do you believe that the second time I re-read it I had sad music playing in the backround and I cried when Sherlock and John spoke at the end? These two will be the death of me.**


	23. The Longest Night

Three seconds later, and John would swear they had been the longest three seconds in his life, a group of paramedics entered the room, followed by Lestrade with a squad of other policemen. John was barely able to take notice of what was happening around him.

He saw Sherlock getting rescued, the paramedics doing all those actions he was sure he knew the name of, but now he couldn't remember a single one. Oxygen. They were giving him oxygen. Then something else. A syringe, something with a syringe. He was certain that it had a name. He couldn't figure it out.

Then there was Lestrade running to him, but all he could see was Sherlock's blood on his hands, the feeble breath of the young man while he was pulled on a stretcher, the wounds on his chest, the white skin spotted with red. He had warm tears running down his face. His vision was blurry. Lestrade was talking to him and he didn't understand a single word. His ears echoed of the shot, echoed of Sherlock's words, echoed of his silent, meaningful cry.

"John! John!"

Lestrade's voice reached John like a call in the distance. The paramedics were still doing the first aid procedures on Sherlock. He shook his head, trying to focus on the DI, without breaking eye contact with Sherlock.

"What has happened?", the DI asked.

Probably for the fourth time, but John couldn't concentrate.

"At least are you ok?", the policeman continued.

John slightly nodded.

The paramedics moved carrying the stretcher outside, quickly but patiently putting Sherlock in the ambulance. John followed and, as soon as they finished the operation, he tried to go with them .

"I'm sorry, you can't come.", said a brunette.

"I'm a doctor, I…please…", he begged.

The woman looked at him with understanding eyes.

"I'm really sorry…"

"I give him the permission. DI Lestrade, Scotland Yard. Let him come with you.", said the DI.

The brunette nodded and John jumped on the ambulance, silently thanking Lestrade with a weary smile. When the doors closed, John heard the policeman's voice one more time.

"I'll be following with the car!"

The sound of those last words arrived muffled and mixed with the siren's cry to John's ears. The ambulance started his race. John's eyes fixed the monitor. Slow pulse. But it was pulsing. Slow breath. But he was breathing. Good. He was alive. John had arrived on time. He huffed and unconsciously passed his blood-soaked hand on his face. The smell of blood filled his nostrils. Two of the paramedics were looking at him while speaking to each other about the 'patient's' conditions. They were probably thinking he was crazy. He had never felt as helpless as in that precise moment. Even in Afghanistan when put before the worst wounds he had always been the calm one, the one his fellow soldiers could have trusted. But now he was barely able to understand what was going on. His heart was beating, even if he couldn't quite feel it in his chest; his lungs were still providing oxygen to his brain, even if he felt like he was asphyxiating; his whole body could still move, even if he couldn't sense any limbs attached to it.

There was Sherlock on a goddamn stretcher with a bullet in his shoulder. The rest had lost every possible meaning for John.

The rush to the hospital lasted an undefined time. When they finally arrived, Sherlock was brought immediately to the OR. J

ohn wanted to go there too, but he couldn't this time. White doors with glass portholes closed in front of his eyes, leaving him alone in an empty corridor. A nurse passing by gave him an askance look.

Lestrade arrived five minutes later. He approached and simply hugged John. John gave him an hopeless glance, before slightly abandoning himself into the DI's arms. On other occasions he would have felt extremely ashamed, but now that comfort was more than welcomed. He sobbed for a while, not moving from the warm embrace. After a while, he eventually drew back. Lestrade wearily smiled.

"You look awful…"

John tried to smile back, but he was sure he was only able to manage a grimace in that state. He had blood everywhere. It was completely drying off and it was itching both on his hand and on his face. It was on his jumper and on his trousers too. It was on his shoes and it was imprinted in his brain. Cold-warm spots of blood on Sherlock, vivid images still haunting his mind. He sighed.

"Guess so…", he finally managed to answer to the other man.

John eventually collapsed on a chair in the corridor, the adrenaline he had inside starting to disappear. He let out another painful sob.

"Christ…"

Lestrade stood still, looking at him.

Minutes later, when John was starting to feel a bit less wrecked, the DI asked:

"How's Sherlock?"

"I…don't know.", he managed to say, unable to find better words "I mean: I'm a doctor and I should know and I actually haven't the slightest idea…my brain is telling me that he's not risking his life, yet I have doubts…it seems I'm unable to make up my mind…"

Lestrade nodded.

"…anyway we'll have some news from the surgeon…", John concluded in a whine.

"I'm sure everything will be alright, John.", the DI reassured.

"It's what I keep telling myself…"

Lestrade sat down next to John.

"He was scared of the hospital. He didn't want to come here.", John almost screamed at the sudden realisation.

"I know he's scared of hospitals.", Lestrade replied "Since the rehab time, he's not really fond of doctors and nurses, let alone a hospital. But he needed it, John. You know that."

John nodded, swallowing another information about the young man: Sherlock was afraid of hospitals because of the rehab. They probably brought him bad memories about his past. He felt terribly sorry for having called the emergency number, although he knew that there was no other solution. He imagined Sherlock on the operating table, unknown people around him, cutting through his flesh to extract the bullet, signs of life barely detectable. He was so fragile, so vulnerable. And he wasn't with him at the moment. He wasn't there to comfort him, to tell him it was alright.

_Trust me._

_I trust you._

He wanted to be there in the OR, holding his hand like he had done months earlier. But he was in a lifeless corridor, waiting for another doctor to come out from those doors, scared to death that something could have gone wrong.

"Can you explain to me what happened, John? If you feel like…"

Part of John hadn't the slightest will to speak, to explain. Yet another part wanted to get rid of that heavy weight he was feeling on his heart.

"I…she…Sherlock…", words randomly escaped from his mouth.

He took a deeper breath and restarted.

"After I had understood where Sherlock could have been, I reached the house and…"

Flashes of the scene appeared in his head as soon as he began to describe it.

"…I went in. Sherlock was there in an empty room, tied to a chair. She was speaking. I saw that Sherlock had been…", he swallowed hard "…tortured."

Lestrade gulped at the last word. John had to stop for a second.

"She was threatening him with a knife and I had to do something. I approached, but she heard me and shot. Sherlock managed to move, but she turned to him and shot him in the shoulders. Then I pulled the trigger too and I…", John murmured "…killed her."

It was the first time in the whole evening he realised what he had done. But he didn't feel any remorse. He was just happy that she was dead and, had he had a second chance, he would have totally done that another time, and a third time too. He would have saved Sherlock a thousand times, no matter how many bodies he should have crossed.

"You know I should report all this to my superiors?"

John nodded, well aware of that, but still not even remotely scared about the idea.

"I think I'll come up with some stories…", said Lestrade in a complicit smile.

John smiled back.

"Thanks…"

"But…just out of curiosity: how did you deduce who was the Viper and where Sherlock was?"

John flinched on the chair at the question. He knew that he would have eventually had to explain that sooner or later, but he hadn't thought that it was going to happen that soon. He opened his mouth as to speak but no sound came out. He repeated the gesture twice, looking more like a fish out of water.

"The ring.", he managed to say.

"The ring?", asked Lestrade.

"The snake ring. I…remembered that I had already seen it."

"Oh."

"On a woman's hand. A woman I've been dating for a while some months ago."

John could see the astonished look on Lestrade's face, but went on.

"Her real name was Laura Collins. She was a colleague at the university."

"I'm…sorry, John."

John shook his head.

"It's unimportant now. All that matters to me is in that room over there with a scalpel in his shoulder, probably.", he said absent-mindedly.

He could read the DI's doubts on his face, questions gathering and accumulating. John half smirked.

"If you're going to ask me if I didn't suspect anything or how I could not know…I don't know. Really. Sherlock does certainly. But me? It's just…confusion."

And he dropped his head back, slightly hitting the wall behind him.

They stayed in silence for a while, fixing invisible points in the air, waiting for a doctor that didn't arrived. Time passed slowly. The clock on the wall ticked, but it seemed to John that each minute passed in an hour, if not more. Everything was stuck.

Then Lestrade spoke again, his voice echoing in the empty corridor.

"You should go home and have a shower. And get some clean clothes too."

"I'm not going anywhere.", replied John harshly "Not until someone comes out from that door and tells me Sherlock is alright."

John didn't notice the slightly amused expression on the DI's face.

"Do you really love him, don't you?"

It took John some seconds to elaborate Lestrade's question. Had he just asked _that_?

"W-what? No, I…"

But the DI interrupted him.

"I may be stupid and a lot less clever than Sherlock Holmes, John. But I'm not blind. And don't tell me pitiful lies, because I know that gaze too well. I see how you care for him. And no one cares for Sherlock like you do."

John smiled wearily at the naked truth.

"Yeah.", he answered "I do. Can't help with that."

It was the first time he had admitted that out loud. It felt…strange. And it felt somehow rewarding at the same time. Like he had finally decided that he didn't want to hide it anymore. Because deep inside, actually, he knew that he couldn't pretend it was just a normal friendship any longer. And telling Lestrade, maybe, had been the first step to something new.

"Ok, then.", the DI continued "I'll go taking some clothes for you. I guess you'd like have warm, dry ones since you're soaked in blood and in rain."

"Rain?", asked John, puzzled.

"Yes, rain. It's been pouring outside since I arrived at Essendon."

It was only in that moment that John noticed he was soaking wet from head to toes. How he didn't notice it before, he couldn't guess. If he thought enough about it, he could quite remember that it had been raining when he had jumped into the ambulance, but he hadn't paid attention at all. If he tried to focus on those little details he saw them as if they were in a very distant dream, blurry and indefinite. The rain was one of those details. The only vivid images were still those of the pale, lithe body of Sherlock with his bare chest covered in blood and the same blood covering his hands. He looked at them now. The blood had completely dried and it was cracking around the knuckles. The smell was intense and pungent, but he didn't mind. He could also marginally see the dark red stripe of blood he had on his cheek. He smelled of blood and of rain. He smelled of Sherlock's blood and London's rain. A smell that he would have never forgotten for all the years to come.

He nodded at the DI.

"Yes, some clothes would be kindly appreciated."

And he handed the detective his keys.

"If there are any news…", muttered the DI.

"…I'll call you.", concluded John.

He watched Lestrade walking away.

He was alone one more time. The ticking of the clock on the wall filled the air mixed with his heartbeat and his slow breaths. It was a gentle orchestra of sounds that marked the time that passed. Slowly. Terribly slowly. And no doctor came out of that white door behind which Sherlock had disappeared an unknown amount of time before. The young man was strong, he knew that. And he was also sure that the wound, despite the appearance, hadn't been life-threatening. Still: Sherlock had been very weak after four days of imprisonment, about which John had no idea of what happened. He knew he had been tortured to lower his defences, to make him suffer. Suffer because he had done his duty and had sent a criminal to prison. Suffer because he had taken John away from Laura. Somehow it was also his fault if Sherlock had been tortured. Oh, god. He hadn't wanted something like that to happen. It was his fault if Sherlock had suffered. What if he was so debilitated now that he couldn't fight while undergoing surgery? What if he wouldn't survive the operation because of that? It would have been John's fault. And John would have never forgiven himself for that.

For the first time in many years he found himself praying. It wasn't a prayer addressed to a specific god, it was just a prayer to himself, a mute plead for Sherlock to overcome the operation. Because he was sure he wouldn't have survived himself in the case of Sherlock's death. The loss would have killed him. And just like that, he realised that he had almost risked to lose the young man without having told him that he…loved him. He mutely promised to himself that he would have confessed his feelings to Sherlock as soon as the young man would have felt better.

For there was only a thing that would have hurt him more than Sherlock's death: the idea that he would have died without knowing how gorgeous he was, how much he was loved by John Watson. And John couldn't allow that. That was John's final decision.

Lestrade arrived some time later, bringing a plastic bag with John's dry clothes and another one which seemed to contain some food.

"Mrs. Hudson thought we might have been hungry.", the DI answered John's inquiring eyes "And here are your clothes."

John took the bag Lestrade was offering to him.

"I think I'll have to look for a toilet, then."

And he stood up, disappearing in another corridor.

He found a toilet five minutes later. When he entered in it and gave a look at the mirror, he was more than surprised than Lestrade and all the other people hadn't shouted at the sight. It looked like he had just butchered someone. He had blood all over the left side of his face, the mark of his fingers on it, then he had blood on his jumper up to his elbows and on his lap, and blood on his trousers too. Wherever he had put his hands on, there was blood. Plus his hair was soaked with rain and it gave him the air of a psychopathic murderer. He slowly rubbed his hands with soap. It was like when he had dreamt about Sherlock in a pool of blood. Except that now the blood was real and it wasn't just a bad dream. Except that it took him ten minutes to scratch it off from his hands and face completely. Having finished that, he slowly undressed. The coldness of the place hit his skin like a sharp knife and he clattered his teeth. A warm shower would have been more than welcomed, but he obviously couldn't go home. He was satisfied enough to have dry clothes to put on.

He returned back to the corridor, where Lestrade was sitting in silence, and dropped himself on the chair again.

"You look definitively better without blood.", the DI smiled.

"Guess so. Thanks for the clothes."

"You're welcome."

They stayed in silence, neither of them apparently willing to have a conversation anymore. They waited and waited and waited. Three hours had passed since they came in and there were no news. John was starting to be really worried, but tried to not show it. The DI seemed calm, but John knew that he was pretending to be.

"Shouldn't we inform Sherlock's brother, Mycroft?", John asked all of a sudden, breaking the silence.

"He'll arrive soon.", mumbled the DI.

"Have you informed him?"

"No. But I'm sure he'll appear here sooner or later."

"How?"

"I don't know. He does that. I've known him for six years. Met him when I met Sherlock. And, trust me, he pops out of nowhere when you least expect it. You don't even have to call him. He _knows_."

"The Holmes brothers.", smiled John.

"Yeah. Understand them and you probably have the key to understand the whole world."

John nodded. Then he heard a door opening and a surgeon finally coming out from the room.

He jumped upright, Lestrade followed.

"Are you his relatives?", the man asked.

"No, but…", replied John.

"Police.", promptly interrupted Lestrade, showing his ID "The man was injured in a police operation."

The surgeon nodded.

"He overcame the surgery. He was lucky. The bullet didn't hit any vital spot. It took us a while to get the things sorted out because he was extremely debilitated and we feared that an intrusive operation like that could have led to unknown consequences. We had to work very carefully. He's sedated now. He'll be probably awake by tomorrow morning if there aren't any complications."

"Do you suspect there might be any?", asked John, a bit worried "Because I know that there might be a reopening of the wound. I saw the hole of the bullet. The blood vessels seemed pretty damaged."

"Are you a doctor?", the man asked John.

"Yes, I am."

"Then you should know that there's nothing sure in our job. He's perfectly fine right now, but I can't tell if there will be complications overnight. I'm positive about the fact that everything will be alright, anyway. That young man has got a strong constitution."

"Yes, he does.", answered John firmly.

As the doctor returned back behind the doors, John and Lestrade sighed in relief.

"Good.", the DI let it go "Very good."

John collapsed on the chair once again. Everything was alright. Exhaustion fell over his body and he felt more tired than he had ever been in his whole life. He didn't even notice it, but seconds later he was asleep.

When he woke up every part of his body ached. It seemed like someone had battered him on every single muscle. He tried to stretch a bit, but it was more painful than maintaining the position he was in. Thanks to the light seeping through the small windows, he realised it was morning. He looked at the clock on the wall. Nine a.m. .

He was alone in the corridor, no sign of Lestrade nor of the bags. He guessed that he had probably gone out to bring the things back to his flat and to Mrs. Hudson, also to give her the news.

Another doctor, a different one from the one he had seen that night, crossed the white door and addressed to him.

"Are you here for Sherlock Holmes?", he asked.

John sprang up, oblivious of his aching limbs.

"Yes."

"He's awake.", the doctor replied softly.

John's heart jumped happily in his chest. Actually, John's heart danced a waltz in his chest.

"Can I see him?"

"Are you a relative?", enquired the man.

"No, but…"

"I'm sorry, but only relatives can visit him at the moment.", he said in an apologising tone.

John felt destroyed by those simple words. He was about to reply something. He badly wanted to see Sherlock. But before he could utter a syllable, he heard a voice behind him.

"He can enter. He has got my permission."

"Surely, Mr. Holmes.", answered the surgeon immediately, bowing his head.

John looked puzzled and turned to see that there was Sherlock's brother standing. Lestrade was right: he had the ability to appear out of nowhere.

"Doctor Watson, good morning.", Mycroft continued in his usual flat tone "I think I owe you a thank you."

"I…", John tried to answer something, without managing to.

"Don't lose time in useless conversations. Go in, doctor Watson.", the man remarked.

"Don't you want to see him first?", John asked politely and rather confused.

"I doubt he wants to see me first.", Mycroft huffed "So, your turn."

John didn't need to be asked twice, he turned away and followed the doctor in the aisle beyond the white door. He was going to see Sherlock and his heart started to race.


	24. Staying Close

Every step towards the room where Sherlock was seemed to leave him without breath the more he approached to it. What was he going to say? Would Sherlock have been aware of what was going on? Would he have been able to face the man in those conditions?

Again, flashes of what had happened the previous night packed his head. He prayed for them to go away, but it didn't happen. They just stayed in his head, ready to pop up when his defence were lowered, like now. The doctor didn't say a word for the whole path and John didn't know if he was feeling relieved for that or not.

Finally, they reached the room at the bottom of a dim corridor. An aseptic bluish-green door welcomed him. Number 541. Sherlock was behind that small metallic piece of furniture and John felt helpless one more time. The surgeon looked at him from behind his glasses. He had reassuringly amber eyes.

"He's here.", the man said "He's very weak, so I can allow you only few minutes with him at the moment."

John nodded and the doctor opened the door, letting John enter, before closing it behind him.

Sherlock's room was small, barely lit and cold. John knew it was a necessity for patients in those conditions, but it felt so lifeless and lonely that made him shiver slightly. The young man was lying on the only bed there was at the centre of it. He was pale, so pale that he seemed white in the aseptic light of the room. His black curls were almost non-existent and his whole body was skeleton-thin under the sheet. His cheeks were emaciated and bruised where the woman had hit him repeatedly. The good news was that there was no red blood anymore on his chest. He had a huge white bandage around his left shoulders. Yet John could still spot all the other cuts he had on the front. They were all cicatrised now and had abandoned the red colour for a brownish one, which deeply contrasted with the whiteness of the skin below.

Sherlock's aquamarine eyes were slightly open. He seemed as helpless and vulnerable as John had imagined him to be. He looked at John directly in the eyes and spoke.

"John…", he said in a feeble wheeze of voice.

"Sherlock…", answered John, approaching.

He could feel tears gathering at the corner of his eyes and, despite having tried to hold them back, he found himself slightly sobbing at the sight in front of him. Without even thinking about the possible consequences, he took Sherlock's hand. The young man smiled and weakly squeezed it, as to check he was alive and not dreaming. John smiled back. Sherlock eventually closed his eyes and silence enveloped the room. The only audible sounds were those of their breaths, Sherlock's controlled one and John's irregular one, and the continuous beeping of the monitors around the bed. John read the pulse. Fifty-eight. Rather low, but perfect for those conditions. He sighed in relief. Despite everything, all seemed well at the moment.

"…morphine…", stuttered Sherlock, reopening his eyes and looking at John.

"What?", John asked, still holding Sherlock's hand.

"They're giving me morphine to keep the pain soothed.", he said in a single breath "They shouldn't do that with a former rehab patient like me. It does no good."

John was quite amazed that Sherlock could still articulate sentences that long even in that condition. And even think about the damage a drug like morphine could do to him. Still, he was Sherlock. One couldn't expect him to be normal at all.

"I know.", replied John with care, softly caressing Sherlock's fingers "But it's necessary. "

Sherlock nodded.

"I know."

They stayed in silence for some more time staring into each other's eyes, unable, perhaps, to say any other things, but without letting their joined hands go.

When the door opened and the doctor asked John to go out, because the young man needed to rest and not to force himself awake, he didn't want to leave at all and Sherlock's eyes said the same. He indulged a bit in the last contact with Sherlock's soft skin and smiled.

"I promise I'll be back soon.", John muttered "Now sleep."

"…trust you…", answered Sherlock in a whisper.

John smiled and exited the room.

Three days later, in which John had barely left the hospital twice to go home and sleep for a bit, Sherlock was finally brought in another room on the third floor. He wasn't in perfect conditions yet, but he was starting to feel better and John rejoiced at the thought of a slowly, but steadily healing Sherlock Holmes.

The previous days he had been with Sherlock some more time, but the young man had still been a lot exhausted and they had spent the majority of their time together just holding their hands or with John telling him what was happening in the hospital's corridors. They never touched the subject of those days in which Sherlock had been held in that house and had been tortured. John didn't want to reopen Sherlock's hidden wounds and Sherlock didn't seem to want that either. Until that day.

It was ten a.m. when John entered for the first time in Sherlock's new room. It was a bigger and brighter one, with a rather good view over a park. A warm vernal sun shone through the curtains and lit Sherlock's pale skin up. John noticed that, in this light, he looked less sick and more alive. It was a great and very welcomed change for him, meaning that the man was starting to recover.

"They still don't let me get up from this bed.", was the first thing Sherlock uttered as John entered.

He smiled, remembering Sherlock having said exactly the same sentence the previous day, when the doctors had announced that he was about to be moved.

"Good morning to you too, Sherlock.", replied John.

And he moved the only chair in the room near Sherlock's bed

"I see they have decreased the morphine dose,", he continued "by seeing how lively you are."

"They aren't giving me morphine anymore. I commanded them to stop.", the young man said proudly.

"You…what?", asked John in shock.

God, he knew that Sherlock was impossible (and, nevertheless, he still loved him), but commanding the doctors to stop giving him morphine…he sighed. He was sure that Sherlock would have been the death of him soon or later.

"Doesn't it hurt?", John continued.

"Yes, but drugs hurt more.", concluded the young man, turning his head away from John.

They stayed in silence for a while, John unable to answer to what Sherlock had just said and Sherlock, probably, highly embarrassed for what had just escaped his mouth.

Minutes later, that, actually, could have been hours, Sherlock turned his head and spoke again.

"I'm sorry."

John looked at him rather perplexed.

"You loved her."

For a nanosecond John wondered who was the 'her' Sherlock was referring to, not being able to understand it. But eventually he got that. Sherlock was talking about Laura. A topic that John would have really loved to never touch again, even if he knew it was an impossible request to comply. Plus he didn't 'love' her. He just happened to like her. He loved, well, Sherlock obviously. Just the thought of it made his cheeks turn pink. He hadn't still had the courage to tell the young man, despite it had been the first thing he had wanted to say when he had entered Sherlock's room three days earlier. He couldn't manage to.

"No, Sherlock…", he stammered "I…didn't love her."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"I liked her, yes. A long time ago I liked the woman called Laura Collins. Nevertheless I liked her fake identity, not the real one."

"You liked her anyway.", Sherlock replied.

John didn't quite know why Sherlock was insisting on that topic. He should be the one to be sorry, not Sherlock.

"No need to be sorry, really. I'm the one who should apologise to you."

"Why?"

"Because she…", John swallowed at the thought "…hurt you because of me."

Sherlock stayed pensive for some seconds.

"Oh. You've heard a part of her speech.", the young man realised.

John nodded wearily.

"It's not your fault. She had many other reasons to hate me, even without your presence in there."

Lestrade entered in the room in that exact moment, interrupting the conversation.

"Good morning, Sherlock. I see you're finally feeling better. We were all very worried."

"John told me that at least fifteen times in the last three days.", he smirked, John blushed.

Lestrade smiled back.

"I'm sorry to disturb you but I'd have some questions to ask, if you don't mind…", continued the DI.

"Not disturbing at all.", replied Sherlock quickly.

"Well…who was that woman?"

John gave Lestrade a puzzled look.

"Laura Collins.", answered John automatically.

"Albert Beaver's girlfriend.", said Sherlock simultaneously.

"What?", the DI's mouth fell open "Really?"

Sherlock nodded and John couldn't understand what they were talking about. Lestrade was about to ask another question, when a nurse and a doctor entered in the room.

"Good morning, Mr. Holmes.", said the surgeon who had operated the young man "I see you're in good company this morning!"

"Seems so.", Sherlock huffed in annoyance.

"I have to take a look at the wound, Mr. Holmes.", the man went on, then addressed to John and Lestrade "Would you kindly…?"

They both left the room.

As they were in the corridor, Lestrade let a huffed groan escape his mouth.

"God, Albert Beaver's girlfriend…oh, god…now I can understand what she has done…oh, god…"

John looked at the DI more and more perplexed.

"Who's Albert Beaver?", he inquired.

"He was the king of the drug traffic in London three years ago. It was one of the first cases on which Sherlock had worked for Scotland Yard. He worked undercover and managed to destroy the drug web in less than three months. But to take Beaver alone it took him one more month, in which, sincerely, I don't know how he was able to survive. Albert Beaver was a monster when it came to assure that everything was under control. We suspected, back then, that he had some back-up that could keep on dealing drugs in the case of his imprisonment, but we have never suspected that he had a girlfriend. It seems like he had kept it secret. A very well hidden secret. And she took his place. Oh my god."

Lestrade looked white as a sheet and swallowed.

"He's lucky to be alive…", he murmured "I need to go back to Scotland Yard. It's a very big deal. Oh my…god."

John didn't know what to say anymore. He just watched the DI walking away and felt confused one more time. How many more things in the life of Sherlock Holmes he didn't know at all?

The doctor and the nurse came out from the room and John entered again. Sherlock had a completely new bandage on the shoulder and was grunting heavily.

"Doctors…", he huffed.

John shrugged his shoulders and sat on the chair next to Sherlock.

"I am a doctor, if your brilliant mind has forgotten that."

Sherlock grinned in his usual wry smile.

"You're John, not a doctor. There's a big difference."

"If you say so…", smiled John.

If the young man was talking like that, he was definitely feeling better. John's heart warmed a bit more, since he was really happy to finally see a glimpse of the old Sherlock back.

"Anyway: what did the doctor say?", enquired John.

"That I'm progressing well. The bullet stroke rather strongly, but it seems that luckily it didn't do much damage. I might be able to return home by the end of next week, although I'd prefer earlier. I…don't like hospitals."

"And doctors.", replied John, amused.

"Don't forget the nurses.", grinned Sherlock in response.

The climate between John and Sherlock seemed to have returned friendly, a bit different from the previous days when it had been rather intimate. Yet there was a big difference between the two situations, John realised. In the cold small room downstairs everything looked final, like there was no possible redemption or returning to life, so they both had needed some human warmth. Here, in that bigger and sunny room, there was more need of smile than of affection. Nevertheless John missed the touch with Sherlock's finger, but he was quite scared of holding the young man's hand in such prominent daylight. Plus there were still things that bugged him. Sherlock's voice recalled John on earth from his thoughts.

"How did you get it?"

"Did I get what?", asked John confused.

"That she was Laura."

"I think as you got it too: by her ring. I…listened to your advice and I concentrated. It came to my mind after a while and suddenly I was aware of who was the Viper."

Sherlock nodded and smiled a bright smile.

"Good guess. I said that you were less idiotic than the average."

"Sherlock!"

God, still the impossible, arrogant git. But he lost himself in that sincere smile of appreciation. For he knew that, despite what had just come out from the young man's mouth, that had been a smile of pride in regards to John's results.

"But you are wrong.", the young man went on.

"Wrong about what?"

"I didn't get it by her ring. I only recognised it later. I got it by her necklace."

"Necklace?"

"Remember the necklace she was wearing? The one I told you it was a gift from her boyfriend?"

John memories went back to the day when Sherlock had appeared at the restaurant saying in front of him that Laura hadn't been over her boyfriend yet.

"I didn't connected the two details at first, because I hadn't thought that the Viper could have been a woman. It's hard to believe that a woman could be that cruel, but love is always such a vicious motivator. Then, last Friday, it literally popped up in my mind that I had already seen the same necklace, but around another neck. A neck that I was trying to bury deep inside my mind…"

"Albert Beaver's.", completed John in a sigh "Lestrade told me what you have done."

Sherlock half-smiled, but John was serious this time.

"Undercover in a drug traffic? Sherlock…", he said, almost pleading.

"I was the best man for the job.", the young man answered "And it was a long time ago."

"You could…have died.", kept on saying John "Actually, you've almost died because of that. Even three years later."

John felt helpless one more time. What else there was in the young man's life that could have been as dangerous, or more, as that? How many other times Sherlock would have been kidnapped, shot, hurt? How many more times John would have suffered for that? He sighed.

"But you came to save me.", Sherlock said in a low, apologising tone.

"Yes. But I was lucky. Hadn't she been my date, I would have never guessed anything. So, at least, try to promise me you won't do something that dangerous again.", John found himself pleading.

But Sherlock didn't answer. He just looked at John with eyes to which John couldn't quite associate any precise feeling. They seemed thoughtful and somehow frightened, like the young man was waiting for something he was afraid of. Neither of them spoke for a good while.

Then they started talking again about futile topics: John told him he had taken a few days off from university, told him some stories about his years at the university, told him some silly things he had done when he was a kid. Sherlock never interrupted, but didn't quite join the conversation either. He just listened and listened. Sometimes he asked new questions, some other times he waited for John to continue.

When the lunch arrived, John had to threaten Sherlock to eat it.

"It looks awful and it stinks.", Sherlock said.

"And you're going to eat it.", answered John commandingly.

"Make me.", teased the young man.

"Don't tempt me, Sherlock. Only because you're in an hospital bed, that doesn't mean that you can do whatever you want. Eat it now!"

"Can I borrow your phone?", asked Sherlock innocently.

"What the hell do you need my phone for?"

"Can I borrow it or not? I don't know where mine is."

John took his phone out of his pocket and handed it to Sherlock. The young man tapped something on it. Then, despite John's perpetual menaces, Sherlock stubbornly refused to touch any of the things he had to eat. John explained that he needed to eat for a better recovery, he explained that he was debilitated, he explained (trying to not force-feed him) that it was for his best. Fifteen minutes of fight later, in which John was remembered about how dealing with Sherlock was just like dealing with a child, there was a knock on the door.

Mycroft stepped in with a bag, giving a half bewildered, half angry look at his younger brother. John looked at them extremely confused.

"Seriously, Sherlock?", the man with the umbrella grunted "Spaghetti from Angelo's?"

"Well, you came.", Sherlock grinned, while his brother removed a box from the bag.

John noticed that there were genuine spaghetti in it. And he also took out two dishes and two forks.

"Next time try to not get yourself shot.", Mycroft remarked "Or at least learn to appreciate the hospital food. You have fifteen minutes."

Sherlock just grinned wider and Mycroft left. John looked at Sherlock in amazement.

"Have you really just texted your brother for a spaghetti's course?", he snorted.

"Can't do with this thing."

And the young man indicated the white chicken floating in an unrecognisable sauce, which, John had to admit, looked awful. Especially compared to those spaghetti.

"But you wanted me to eat, so I came up with a solution.", the young man smirked slyly "There's enough for you too, if you want…"

Just the smell of the tomato sauce, as Sherlock opened the box with his right hand, made John's mouth water.

"Ok.", he said "Hit and drowned completely. Let me divide."

And he divided two portions of spaghetti on the two plates.

"But remember that I don't approve this behaviour."

"Yes, _professor_."

John couldn't help but smile at the sound of the word. They were far beyond that limit and John noticed that it had just become a mere meaningless term between the two of them. John obviously didn't consider Sherlock only a student anymore and Sherlock, well, he had always considered formalities boring and useless. And the spaghetti were extremely good.

Sherlock, even one handed, managed to eat his portion gracefully, without making a mess around him, while John, who had every part of his body that worked properly, managed to get his jumper stained with tomato and basil.

Fifteen minutes later Mycroft came back in, took the dishes, emptied the hospital tray into the plastic bag, heavily grunting in annoyance, and went away. When the nurse returned to take the tray away and noticed that Sherlock had eaten everything, she complimented the young man.

"Good boy…continue like this and you'll feel better soon."

She didn't seem to notice the strong smell of pasta that filled the air and, as she left, John started to giggle, followed by Sherlock.

The afternoon passed slowly. Sherlock asked John to entertain him a bit and John tried to make Sherlock play some stupid games, but the young man managed to turn each of them in something unplayable.

"Ok, let's try with this one. I say a word and you have to say another word that starts with the last two letters of the one I say. Then I'll have to do the same with yours. And so on."

Sherlock hummed in approval, while slightly scratching his bandage.

"Don't do that.", remarked John "Don't touch the bandage nor scratch the wound."

"It itches!"

"I know it does. And I'm quite surprised it doesn't hurt you…", he remarked, but Sherlock didn't seem to mind.

John had guessed that the wound was seriously aching. He could see it now and then through Sherlock's eyes, yet Sherlock didn't say anything about that.

"So? The word?", questioned the young man impatiently.

"Apple."

"Boring word."

"It's just a word!"

"Choose another one. I don't like apples."

"It's a game! It's not a parade of stylistically beautiful words!"

"Choose another.", insisted Sherlock in annoyance.

"Ok. Ok.", snorted John "Then…carpenter."

"Er…eruditus!", Sherlock exclaimed.

"That's not an English word…", huffed John.

"You didn't say they should have been English words…"

"Yeah. My fault…"

"Plus, it's funnier this way."

"Whatever.", concluded John.

But they went on playing, Sherlock completely according to his own rules, sometimes inventing new words, sometimes making John change the word he had chosen, some other times laughing because John couldn't find a suitable word.

"Sphinx! How am I supposed to find a word that begins with 'nx'?", he snorted, half laughing.

"You stated the rules.", the young man smirked.

"You change them every two seconds and now you're obliging me to follow the rules?", he shook his head.

But they went on, laughing and carefree. And that, at the moment, was all that John wanted: to see Sherlock laughing, oblivious of everything else. He wanted him to have good memories with which he could erase the bad ones. And that was all that counted.

At dinner time Mycroft reappeared with a box full of chicken curry and carrots. Both John and Sherlock ate it as they had done at lunch. Mycroft threw away the hospital food and left once more. At eight the doctor arrived and visited Sherlock.

"You seem to recover pretty well just in one day.", the man said.

"Can I get up?", asked Sherlock.

"As to walk, no. Not yet. You're still too weak to walk. But we can provide you with a wheelchair if you want to do a little tour of the hospital."

Sherlock grunted, but in the end nodded.

The doctor left and five minutes later a nurse arrived with the wheelchair.

"Should I help you to sit on it?", she asked.

John looked at Sherlock in the eyes and answered for him.

"I'll do that. Don't worry."

And she left.

John almost didn't have the time to turn to Sherlock that he was already trying to stand up alone.

"No, no, no. Let me help! You can't do it alone!"

And he approached, slowly helping the young man to stay upright. John had to take Sherlock's right arm and pass it over his shoulders to prevent Sherlock from falling down. As a matter of fact the young man's legs were really weak and they shook slightly as he was fully upright. Yet John managed to put him on the wheelchair without many problems.

"Should we go?"

"Yes.", answered Sherlock.

After three turns in different aisles, Sherlock asked to be brought outside the hospital. John refused firmly.

"We can't go out!", he said "You're a patient and can't leave the hospital!"

"I'm not leaving, John. I'm just asking to be brought in the park that there's outside. Thirty minutes. Please, John."

"No. It's my last word on it."

"I've been four days locked in a room and other three days locked in another room. Please…", Sherlock begged "Nobody will notice!"

"Ok, ok.", eventually said John, always too willing to make Sherlock happy.

And they took the lift to the ground floor and exited from an emergency exit Sherlock had indicated to him.


	25. All Hearts Are

As they stepped out of the hospital and moved to the park, Sherlock took a deep breath of the slightly warm breeze of March. It was a liberating breath, like he had been held in prison for a long time and he could finally enjoy the smell of freedom. Because, John had to admit, it tasted like freedom for him too. It was a release from all the anxiousness that those narrow and aseptic corridors had made him feel. It was the same feeling he had felt when he had been finally released from the hospital after he had been shot too. He could sympathise with Sherlock more than every other human being, since they had both been shot in the same shoulder. John's wound had been caused by a rifle and had been a thousand times harder, but he didn't care too much anymore. The pain had soothed long time before. The young man's one was recent and John knew it was making him suffer, despite Sherlock's apparent indifference to it. He hesitantly laid his hand on Sherlock's shoulder as to protect it from further harm. Sherlock didn't say anything.

The night had already completely fallen on London and the sky was amazingly crystal clear. The park they walked in had few lamps here and there, but was mostly unlit. In that lightless environment, John found himself looking up at the sky vault above. It was of a pitch black colour and the white stars trembled on it like they were alive and dancing. London rarely gave such a sight and John lost himself into it.

"It's…magnificent.", he exhaled.

Sherlock slightly raised up his head, much as his shoulder could allow him and looked up too.

"It's utterly stunning.", he murmured in a whisper.

"I barely know anything about the stars here.", John said "I can quote every single one above Afghanistan's desert, but here it's…different. It's like being on the same planet and on a complete new one at the same time."

"What stars were there in Afghanistan?", Sherlock asked.

"During summer, which, in my opinion, was the best time to watch that flawless sky, you could spot Orion, Monoceros, Canis Major, Lepus and the broad Eridanus…and, sometimes, you could also see the milky light of our galaxy…", John remembered, the thought giving him shivers.

"You can spot Orion and Canis Major from London too.", said Sherlock "Turn to south."

John gladly complied and turned himself and Sherlock towards south.

"There.", he tried to point, lifting his left arm up and groaning at the effort.

John gulped, holding back a whine of worry.

"Wrong arm.", Sherlock smiled "I still have to get used to it."

Then he raised his right one and pointed to the sky.

"Orion's belt is there."

John immediately recognised it.

"It's not as luminous as it was in Afghanistan, but it's beautiful nevertheless."

Sherlock nodded.

"And if we follow the line of Orion's belt downward…", went on the young man.

"…we can spot Sirius and Canis Major.", concluded John. "Sirius has always fascinated me."

"How?"

"I don't know. Maybe it's the sound of the name, maybe it's because it's the brightest star. Even when you can't quite see the other ones, Sirius is always there. A beam of light in the obscurity of the world."

"The name says it." Sherlock remarked "_Seirios_ in ancient Greek means 'glowing'."

John smiled, one more time fascinated by the knowledge that that young man was showing.

"I like Rigel the most.", he continued "The seventh brightest star in our sky. It's actually a three stars system of which the brightest one is a blue supergiant. I like it for its colour, so soft and relaxing. Its actual name comes from the Arabic _riǧl al-ǧabbār_, which means 'the foot of the conqueror'."

"…the conqueror.", smiled John "I could understand why you like it."

Sherlock slightly turned his head to John and replied with a smirk.

"Then there's the northern section…"

And John turned Sherlock towards north.

"The first constellation you may notice is the well-known Plough.", he said, pointing at it "Which is actually part of a biggest constellation known as Ursa Major, the big bear, in Latin. If you use the Plough's pointer stars and draw a line between them, then extend it on the left, you can find Polaris, the North Star."

John followed the path Sherlock was tracing with fingers with his eyes. Among all the other stars he could clearly see the ones indicated by Sherlock. He had never lingered too much in stargazing in London, because he had never really been interested. He admired the starlight as it was, he didn't need to know their names. But Sherlock's baritone, warm voice was able to make every subject interesting and he could have listened to star names for hours and hours. It was such an intimate conversation that John also began to think whether it was time to confess his unconfessed feelings. He struggled a bit with himself while Sherlock continued his guided tour of London's constellations.

"Then there's the Draco just below Ursa Minor. It's not easy to spot. It's made by fourteen main stars, the brightest of which is called Gamma Draconis or Eltanin, its more common name. The name comes from Latin, obviously, and it means 'dragon'. And it slightly has the shape of a dragon.", and he traced it with his index "See?"

John nodded, depicting it mentally.

"And up there", continued the young man "there's Cassiopeia. This is even harder to spot. It's opposite to the Plough and takes its name from a mythological Greek queen, so vain and beautiful that Poseidon eternally punished her by placing her in the heavens tied to a chair in such a position that, as she circles the celestial pole in her throne, she is upside-down half the time. That's why the constellation resembles a chair, which was an instrument of torture."

"It's a rather sad story for such a beautiful constellation.", John stated, feeling little wrecked all of a sudden as Sherlock pronounced the word 'torture'.

"Yes, it is.", replied Sherlock "But rarely Greek mythology is happy."

"Did it hurt?", the question slipped out of John's mouth and he bit his tongue as he realised what he had just asked.

Sherlock immediately knew what was John talking about.

"Bearable.", he replied "She never went much deep. She said that she wanted me to suffer and suffer, so she took it slow. Very slow."

John's heart filled with sorrow and pain. He wanted to hug Sherlock and tell him that it was alright, that from now on he would have protected him from whatever it may have come. Because that was the role he was more than willing to take on.

"I heard you provoking her…", said John, trying to fight back the tears "…why?"

"Survival instinct. The more I provoked her, the more she wanted to keep me alive to make me suffer. I learnt it during the first day. She was quite predictable in her behaviour. She let the anger overrule her and…it sort of saved my life."

John frowned in the darkness and, unconsciously, slightly squeezed his hand which was still resting on Sherlock's shoulder. The young man let a soft gasp escape.

"Oh, damn.", John promptly replied "I'm so sorry."

Sherlock shook his head to forgive John's involuntary gesture.

Eventually John noticed that Sherlock was slightly shaking. The air was quite warm indeed, but he had only a gown on him. John immediately took off his jacket and placed it on Sherlock's shoulders.

"You…silly, silly man. You are freezing and you didn't say a word!", he scolded teasingly.

"I didn't notice it.", the young man replied "I am too busy looking at the stars."

Then silence fell for a while, both of them still gazing at the sky above their heads.

Some minutes later, John heard the distinct sound of something that was being unwrapped coming from Sherlock's lap. As he glanced down, Sherlock had already placed a cigarette between his lips and was about to light it up. John couldn't quite believe his eyes.

"What the hell, Sherlock!"

And he stretched his right arm to take the cigarette away from Sherlock's mouth with his fingers. He slightly brushed his skin against Sherlock's damp lips and his heart almost failed to keep on beating at the sensation. Yet he managed to throw the thing on the ground and subsequently catch the full packet Sherlock was still holding in his hands and throw it into the nearest bin. The fast movements of John's hands were immediately followed by Sherlock's annoyed huff.

"Cigarettes! Two days after an operation!", said John out loud.

"Three days, actually.", remarked Sherlock "And you are, as always, so _boring_."

"Yes, yes. I'm a boring doctor that doesn't want his patient to kill himself with cigarettes after a shot in the shoulder and a surgery!", John admonished "How did you even have a packet with you?"

"Mycroft.", the young man mischievously replied "It was in the bag he gave to me. I managed to hide it without you noticing."

John shook his head.

"I'll have to scold him too and check whatever he brings to you…"

Silence fell again. Sherlock resumed his star gazing and John found himself thinking all over again about his feelings for the young man. They were so close in that precise moment, John's hand resting on Sherlock's shoulder, his waist almost touching the black curls, which, despite everything, still scented sweetly, his right fingers still holding the warm dampness of Sherlock's lips. Those lips he had once kissed, those lips which belonged to the most important person in the universe for him. He should say that now. He had risked to lose him and god knows if that would have happened again in a short time. No, he needed to tell him. Now. He took a deep breath, feeling immediately light-headed like he was going to faint. He plucked all his courage up.

"Listen, Sherlock…", his voice came out lower and rougher than he thought.

Sherlock dropped his head and slightly turned to John.

"There's something I…"

He felt the words escaping his tongue, slipping away from his brain.

"…have to tell you."

The young man answered with an inquisitive look.

"I…", he continued, blushing "…like you, Sherlock. I like you very much."

Sherlock furrowed, then glanced down.

"I know.", he answered in a melancholic tone "The kiss had rather made it clear."

John took another deep breath as memories of the kiss filled his head, to the realisation that Sherlock had obviously known his feelings since. And he had also kissed John back and then said that…_thing_. He had almost forgotten about it, since Sherlock had been kidnapped and shot. He heard the young man mimic him, also taking a deep breath.

"And…", Sherlock continued "…I like you too, John."

John's legs almost gave up at the declaration and he had to force them to hold him upright. Yet he clearly sensed a 'but' in the other man's tone. Something that he couldn't quite understand.

"But…?", he asked hesitantly, fearing the answer already.

"But, as I have already said, this is wrong.", the young man remarked, sadly.

John couldn't understand.

"Why?", it escaped his mouth before he could even think.

Sherlock looked at him for a second with a distant, cold gaze. A gaze that would have probably meant everything important, but that John couldn't recognise. He could just feel his heart being slowly torn apart.

"Because it's me, John.", Sherlock concluded, turning his head away.

John felt tears at the corner of his eyes.

"John…listen, please.", said Sherlock in a pleading tone "Just listen."

The young man took a deeper breath and started to talk and John tried to pay attention, even if he was feeling almost sick at the moment.

"The first time we met, at the university, I was expecting to be scolded for my behaviour like all the other professors did in the past. I…behaved as the usual arrogant, insufferable person I am. And I expected a punishment. But you didn't behave normally. You played along with me, you seemed fascinated, not scared to death. I was intrigued. I could read your past on you, but I couldn't quite catch every glimpse of your character. It became a challenge."

He stopped for a second and took another breath.

"I thought you weren't the ordinary person one could see by looking at you. You had much more layers. I wanted to investigate. So I poked your curiosity to see how far you could go. And you followed me on a crime scene and you seemed fascinated by my work. I was…flattered. Really. But then you changed your mind and I couldn't understand why. It took me two weeks to try to understand what was happening. And it's not a thing that normally occurs to me."

John listened and glimpses of old memories began to appear in his mind as Sherlock spoke of their past together.

"I thought I had misinterpreted your interest. I thought you considered me a freak like everyone else did…and it hurt. And I didn't know why it hurt. I had never felt something like that. But I did. Two weeks and everything went back to normal. And that day at the park you told me that you thought I was a very brilliant and clever man. Nobody had ever told me that like you. You made me feel less weird, less different."

John slightly smiled among the tears that were slowly running down his face.

"Yes, but…", he tried to say.

"Please, John, just let me…"

John shut up.

"Then there was the other case, the burglar's one. I have always worked alone, John. But for some unknown reason I wanted you to come with me. And you came. I was strangely happy when you appeared on that train platform. I couldn't understand what it was. And when I've insulted that woman in the shopping centre, you got angry at me and…for the first time in my life I felt the urge to apologise for my behaviour. And I couldn't understand the reason why."

The young man stopped one more time, and John felt Sherlock's body stiffen under his hand.

"On the same day that burglar cut me with a knife. I didn't want to go to the hospital, you know the reason why, now. And the only person that came to my mind that could help me were you. And you took care of me, you didn't send me away and I felt relieved. It was strange, but, even with a cut through my shoulder, I felt good, knowing there was you with me. And I couldn't still understand what it was."

"So I decided to follow you. It was just a game. I just wanted to know more about you, what did you do, how did you spend your days when not teaching, how was your private life. I knew it was wrong, but I couldn't stop myself from doing it. I saw you getting drunk to forget the conversation with your ex-wife and I felt the urge to take care of you as you did with me. I brought you home. I tried to distract you, but I knew you would have felt embarrassed the following morning, so I left."

John's head was starting to spin with all the information Sherlock was giving to him. The pieces of the puzzle he had missed for so long were finally appearing before his eyes. He kept on listening to the young man's confession.

"There also was the day when you left…Laura alone in the restaurant to follow me. I understood you were drawn by danger like no one I have ever met before was. But my heart started to flinch at the thought that, maybe, you were interested in me too. I didn't know where the thought came from, but it was there, vivid. I discovered I liked you. _Liked_. What an odd word for a sociopath. I don't like people, but I liked you. It took me another while to get used to it. And I lived with the idea that you reciprocated the feeling. But I didn't really wanted to discover the truth, so I continued to behave as nothing had happened."

John felt his heart ache at this point. It was the same path John had followed during the last months, when he had tried desperately to live with those hurting feelings, knowing that Sherlock wouldn't reciprocate them in the slightest.

"But one day my well-built walls crumbled down. I was feeling bad. Bad in a way that…you can't imagine. Bad to the point I thought that drugs could help me to ease the pain."

John gulped.

"I went to meet a person that could give me what I wanted for a reasonable price, but as soon as I arrived there, I thought of you and I wanted to see you, I needed to see you. To hear your voice, to feel your warmth, your understanding care. So I came to you. And you stayed beside me that night, and you held my hand, and I felt good. Protected. The morning after I wanted to say 'thank you', but I couldn't manage to. Thus I…kissed you. And you rejected me, obviously, because you didn't like me at all. I felt empty and didn't want to see you anymore. I knew it was wrong, I knew I am a student and you're a professor, but it didn't stop me from wanting that. But knowing that you didn't want it…I just forced myself to lock my feelings away. And it worked. Two weeks later I was ready to face you once more, no more stupid feelings on my way. Do you understand?"

John slightly nodded and Sherlock went on.

"But I was wrong, John. I couldn't face you. So I decided to not follow your lessons. But you found me in that classroom playing the violin and you complimented me. I couldn't understand if you were making a fool of me or what. It was all so blurry. But eventually I managed to set myself back on trails and everything went back to normality. I distanced myself further, shut everything that involved sentiment, felt better for the first time in that period. So better that I could call you for a case and not feel hurt. It worked divinely. We went around like old friends. Everything was perfect. But you got angry at me because I didn't care for that woman. And you were right. I didn't care at all. And I was perfectly fine with that. I didn't care about you getting angry. I didn't care about anything. I had my old self back. Everything was fine."

John felt his whole body shaking at this confession. How could a man just distance himself from everything? How could he just not feel anything at all? Sherlock went on.

"But two days later I felt…remorse. Remorse because I hadn't behaved as you expected. And I wanted to do something. So I bought you a Christmas present to tell you I was sorry."

John faintly smiled at the thought of the present.

"And as you can see, I'm not good at Christmas presents either…yet you thanked me for it. I felt so happy. But I still didn't know what to do with myself. I didn't understand if you thanked me for kindness or what else. Then you…kissed me on my birthday and I realised it. I shouldn't have let you, but I was slightly tipsy and couldn't reason correctly. But as soon as you kissed me I understood the reality: that it's so wrong, John."

"Why?", asked John, pleadingly.

"Because I can't love people. I don't like anyone else except you, but it might change. As I've already done once, I can just train myself to not be involved in sentiments. I'm not empathetic, I don't care, I'm a loner who doesn't need people and people hate me. And even if I like you now, tomorrow I may not. I'm not a good man, John. I've been a druggie, I'm a person whom many people are afraid of. One day I may even kill someone! I can't be the right person for you, John. I just can't. This is all wrong. Can't you see?"

Sherlock had almost shouted the last part. John had to swallow hard. He had never heard Sherlock being so honest with someone. And yet everything hurt so much in John's heart that he started to think his heart couldn't bear any pain anymore. He was crying silently and couldn't manage to regain his composure. He felt empty and sad, and he didn't know what to answer. He sighed.

"But, Sherlock…", he managed to mutter "I like you as you are…"

"And I can't accept it, John.", replied Sherlock immediately "I can't accept the fact that you're sacrificing your life for someone who can't even understand when he's in love, someone who has always treated love as a disadvantage, someone who has spent his whole life training to destroy every feeling he had ever felt. Someone like me. You will get eventually tired of me, of my arrogance, of my inhumane behaviour. And you will suffer for that, because you will have wasted precious years of your life for me. And I can't allow this to happen."

"But…", John tried to say one more time.

"Please, John.", the young man said coldly "Just take me back to my room. Please."

John silently brought Sherlock back into the hospital and helped him place on his bed. Neither of them looked at each other in the eyes, nor said anything anymore. John left the room soon after Sherlock was in bed. He closed the door behind him and leaned on the wall, tears falling down on his neck, defeated.

* * *

**AN: **

**A small note about the stargazing part: it was a hell of a challenge to make it right. Every bit of information is correct, or, at least, very very approximate to the truth. Nevertheless, I have to admit that this is my favourite chapter of all.**

**Thank you for reading it! ;)**


	26. Broken

When John returned home he didn't have the slightest idea of how he was feeling. Because, maybe, he was feeling nothing at all. Or, on the other side, maybe because he was feeling everything at the same time: the joy, the fulfilment, the hurt, the pain. For Sherlock had told John he liked him, for Sherlock had told him he was a man of worth, for Sherlock had told him he wasn't the right man for him, for Sherlock had indeed refused his feelings for him. How could one go through such different stages of sentiments in the blink of an evening, John didn't know. Until now. Because he was going through them like a freight train at maximum speed.

He was barely able to crawl to bed. Sleep would have been such a welcomed friend in his state, but, obviously, it didn't come at all. He spent the night like a mass of shivering flesh, unable to do anything else but sobbing in the darkness or waving his fist in the air, angry with Sherlock. No, not with Sherlock. With himself. He hadn't had the courage to speak up his mind against the stupid things that had come from Sherlock's mouth. He had lost the chance to rebut Sherlock's last words with his ones. He should have told Sherlock that what he was feeling for him had already accepted every side of Sherlock's personality. He should have reassured him that he wouldn't have let him alone, that he would have never ever got tired of him, that he would have always been by his side. Instead he had stayed silent, speechless before the young man's heavy, bitter words.

He loathed himself for that.

But what could he do now? Sherlock had already made up his mind about the whole situation, but John? He couldn't just let it go. He wasn't the one who could just forget he loved someone. Especially not after all he had gone through to admit it. Especially when he was sure that nobody would have ever been able to substitute Sherlock in his heart.

The thing he feared the most was that Sherlock wouldn't have wanted to see him again. And that was an idea that he couldn't even bear to think. He felt like he was going to lose Sherlock for a second time: first it had been a bullet that almost had taken the young man away from him, now it was the same young man who was dragging himself away from John. And John, as usual, was helpless.

The next morning he was pacing to and fro in his flat, unable to decide whether to go to the hospital or not. He desperately wanted to go, but he didn't know if Sherlock would have welcomed him or sent him away. And the second chance scared him to death. In the end he stepped out and headed for the building.

It didn't take him the usual forty minutes to arrive, because there had been a car accident on the bus route he usually took to get to the hospital. For this reason, the passengers of the bus had been asked to choose alternative means of transport and John had to take the underground, which, in that case, was the most inconvenient way to reach the place where Sherlock was, since the stop was thirty minutes of walk away from it. All this brought John to be massively late.

He had usually reached the hospital by nine, maximum nine-thirty, since Sherlock hospitalisation. Now it was almost a quarter past ten. And what made him more nervous was the fact that he still didn't know how Sherlock would have reacted at his sight. A rather bad way to start the day, thought John as he climbed the steps to the third floor.

When he arrived, he immediately spotted Lestrade in the middle of the corridor. The DI looked at him like he was some sort of a miracle on Earth, eyes literally glittering.

"Oh, thank god, here you are!", the policeman said.

"What's that?", asked John, more than puzzled by the odd welcome.

"Sherlock is going crazy! You haven't shown up at nine as usual and I tried to keep him company, but he just started to shout that he didn't want any company, but John! And, believe me, he's a nightmare! And I've never been happier to see someone in my whole life than you at the moment!", and he patted John's shoulder.

John gave a more than astonished look at the DI. Had Sherlock already forgotten their previous night conversation? Had he decided to behave like nothing had happened or he had something else in mind? The only way to know that was to enter the room. And John did. For, even if everything had somewhat changed, he still wanted to be near the young man. No matter what.

"John!", was the more than happy welcome of Sherlock "I thought you wouldn't have come!"

John would have wanted to answer that he had thought that too, but kept silent.

"Lestrade provides an awful company!"

John half-smiled.

"Does that mean that I provide you with a better one?", he stated half bitterly, half amused.

"Well, you're not as boring as him.", Sherlock answered, certain.

"Kind as always.", John wearily replied.

Whatever game Sherlock was playing, John was really unwilling to play along this time. He huffed, took off his coat and sat on the chair. Neither Sherlock nor him spoke for a while after that small conversation. John ruminated about what to say or to do, but came up with nothing worthy. He felt emptied of words, of thoughts. He did want to say something, he did want to do something. Yet he did nothing. He waited for a while, then tried to speak. He swallowed and started.

"Listen, Sherlock,", he said, faking calmness "about yesterday…"

Sherlock looked at him in an odd way, then interrupted.

"John, please, can we not talk about that now? I just want to forget I'm in a hospital at the moment. Can you do that for me, please?", he asked, almost pleadingly.

John would have loved to answer that no, he couldn't. He would have loved to answer that he _wanted_ to talk about what had happened. He would have loved to _explain_ to Sherlock what he had in mind. Yet he found himself nodding at the question and gave up.

They spent the next days in useless and trivial conversations, chatting about the weather, football (and John was rather sure that Sherlock hated football), the news on TV. They watched TV programmes, of which the young man hated everything, played the usual games. When the doctor gave Sherlock the permission to walk, John helped him in his first steps. He was still rather weak, but managed to be able to walk properly again in no time. The doctors complimented him. But the conversation John had wished to eventually happen never did. He tried to forget about it and just cheer Sherlock up, but he found it difficult and most of the times he could see the palpable tension in the room. Nevertheless he did nothing to upset Sherlock's recovering mood. He didn't feel good, but Sherlock did. And, after all, he persuaded (or tried to) himself that it was all that counted.

One week later Sherlock was finally dismissed. Actually, the doctors had suggested that Sherlock should have waited other three-four days, but the young man made such a fuss that Mycroft had to calm him down and assure the doctors that he would have been fine.

John accompanied Sherlock to the car that was waiting for him with Mycroft inside. They looked into each other's eyes for the first time after the 'accident'. John saw glimpses of melancholy through the aquamarine and he was sure that the young man noticed the tears gathering at the corner of his. It was probably the last time they would have been so close. John felt his stomach twist and his heart ache. They shook hands and, as soon as Sherlock got into the car, John sensed a warm salty tear streaming down his face.

When he got home, he desperately tried to not think about it. He ate lunch and tried to not think about it. He went shopping and tried to not think about it. He watched TV and tried to not think about it. He ate dinner and tried to not think about it. He went to sleep and tried to not think about it. Pointlessly. The thought never left him for a second.

It was midday of the following day and John was trying to eat a sandwich, when his mobile buzzed on the table. He distractedly picked it up, already prepared to gnaw whoever was writing to him when he was feeling in such a miserable condition. But as he saw the name on the screen, his heart and brain failed to work properly. Sherlock. He totally hadn't expected it.

_Thank you, John. –SH._

That was all. He put the mobile down. Seconds later it buzzed again. Sherlock, again.

_Thanks to you the hospital time hasn't been that bad. –SH._

He put it down one more time, only to see it buzz again.

_I've thought about how well I felt near you, in these days. –SH._

And? And? John's heart skipped many and one beats.

_And I need to think about it, John. _

_Be patient, please. –SH._

Think about what? What did he have to think about? Why not talk about it face to face? Why was it always so damn complicated with Sherlock? John couldn't stand it anymore. He called Sherlock, but was welcomed by the young man's voicemail message.

_Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Leave a message._

He closed the call and furiously tapped a message.

_What do you mean with that? – John._

As it had already happened a million of times, the answer never came.

When the next morning came, he should have gone back to university. He had taken a two week leave to stay near Sherlock at the hospital and taking another one hadn't really been in his plans. But he couldn't cope with teaching in such a state. He called Mike and hoped for him to be understanding.

He had, obviously, made up a story, saying to his old friend that his sister wasn't feeling well and that he had to help her. Mike, who knew John's sister past problems, had simply accepted his request. Even this time, Mike didn't complain. He wished John's sister to be better soon and told John a dozen of times that he shouldn't apologise, that everyone had got their problems sometimes. If only Mike knew of what problems he was talking about! Nevertheless, John had the odd idea that Mike suspected something. He didn't know the reason why, for it was not that the simultaneous absence of a professor and a student was unusual (especially if the student was Sherlock Holmes, the man that barely remembered to attend the lessons).

Moreover, the university had been given a different version of Laura Collins's death, which didn't involve either John or Sherlock. Lestrade had said that it was for the best, both for the university's reputation and because the police wanted to keep it secret to finally dismantle her drug traffic for good. So, officially, Laura Collins had died in an unlucky accident, falling down the stairs in her grandmother's house.

And this was the version everyone knew, Mike included. Yet John was still thinking that he suspected something, but said nothing. And John was immensely grateful for that.

That same morning, two hours later, John picked up his mobile and called Sherlock's number again. He didn't know what he was doing, but he followed his instinct.

_Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Leave a message._

"Hello, ahem, Sherlock. I don't know why I am talking to your voicemail instead than with you directly, but at the moment I don't see any other available possibility. First of all: it's been a pleasure spending the time with you at the hospital. I'm glad that I've been able to make your staying there more bearable and I'm happy that you appreciated my company…"

The voicemail beeped the end of the time allowed to leave a message. John called back.

_Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Leave a message._

"…because I wanted you to be happy and I did my best to help you. And I have other things to say. Still I don't know why I'm talking to a voicemail. But this is your decision, and it's the only way I can say what I should have said during that infamous conversation."

_Beep._

Call back.

_Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Leave a message._

"You have said that you have been fascinated by me the first time we met. I'm still asking myself how a brilliant, clever, intelligent man like you could have been fascinated by me. A boring, as you stated many times, professor. I, Sherlock, was the one who has been literally struck by you. Intrigued, captivated even."

_Beep._

Call back.

_Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Leave a message._

"Before my eyes there stood a bright young man. A bit arrogant and insufferable, but brighter than anyone I've ever known in my life. I was drawn by you, like a moth to a flame. When you invited me to the crime scene I…am still sorry for that, but I didn't know what to do. I had just had one of the most thrilling experiences of my life and…"

_Beep._

Call back.

_Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Leave a message._

"…all I could say was that stupid sentence about me being your professor. But at the time I was confused. I was supposed to be an educator and, instead, I got overly excited about a homicide. Because you were brilliant. Because you made a horrible thing interesting with your cleverness. And I felt wrong. For my behaviour didn't fit the role of the teacher."

_Beep._

Call back.

_Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Leave a message._

"And when I didn't see you the next weeks, it felt weird. It didn't feel right. And I couldn't understand why. I tried to persuade myself that I didn't need a dangerous life after Afghanistan and that what I had done by coming with you was wrong, but I was stupid…It had been great and I was denying it. And you told me that. I can't deny I like solving cases and I love dangerous things. But I do mainly because there's you."

_Beep._

John stopped for a second, putting down his mobile. He still didn't know what he was doing with all those messages in the voicemail. He didn't even know if Sherlock would have listened to them. He moved for a while in the flat, telling himself that he was doing a stupid thing. Yet he picked up the phone once again.

_Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Leave a message._

"And that's why I always came with you. I'm only sorry that it took me a lot of time to realise that the fascination wasn't just fascination. It was attraction. And what else it could have been? If I think about it now, I'd smack myself for having been so blind. When you kissed me, I had still walls of rules and moral values that were telling me it was wrong…"

_Beep._

Call back.

_Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Leave a message._

"…and I followed them. I secured myself behind them, without noticing the truth. I rejected you because it was what I was supposed to do, because I was stupid enough to not recognise that I felt the same. Plus, Sherlock, it isn't easy to understand what is going on in your mind, so I was confused too, but then…"

_Beep._

Call back.

_Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Leave a message._

"…then you disappeared for two weeks and I was at a loss. Stupidly enough I didn't recognise the signs of affection even then. I sent you messages because I was worried, without realising that I was worried because I…liked you. I liked you and the idea that you could have been hurt, that I could have lost you…scared me to death. And I didn't understand. Idiot me."

_Beep._

John closed the last call and exhaled heavily. It wouldn't have worked. It was midday and he cooked some pasta to eat for lunch. In the afternoon he went for a walk, trying to cope with Sherlock's words echoing in his ears: 'I like you too', 'This is wrong', '_I need to think about it, John._'. The last sentence the only thing that gave John a little sparkle of hope. What hope? He didn't have any. Yet he clang onto it desperately.

At five he returned home and, despite his doubts, he picked up his phone once more.

_Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Leave a message._

"Still me. I guess you're getting _bored_ of my messages. And probably your voicemail will refuse to hear my voice sooner or later. I realise that I should give you the time to think. But…it seems I can't stop calling you. After almost two weeks in which I've seen you every hour of the day I…miss you. Even if we didn't talk much lately. I still do."

_Beep._

Call back.

_Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Leave a message._

"Do you know when I realised that I liked you? When I heard you play the violin, Sherlock. I swear that never…never in my whole life I have been so moved by a piece of music. It was like being in heaven on Earth. And I realised I wanted to kiss you, to hear the music of your soul through me by that kiss…"

_Beep._

Call back.

_Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Leave a message._

"…that day everything I had built around me crumbled. Sherlock, you, you have been able not only to make me fall for you, you've been able to make me understand myself, my feelings. It was a liberation, a sensation of things coming anew. And it was thanks to you. I had doubts about what to do. I have still doubts, but there was and there is no doubt in the fact that I love you."

_Beep._

Call back.

_Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Leave a message._

"No doubt…not a single one. And I'm sorry to have been mad at you that day, I was confused about my feelings, about what you were or weren't feeling about me. And I got angry with you for that reason. Everything I said back then was just my anger speaking. Not me, I swear. I swear I've never really thought things like those. Never. I was just…angry and confused. Forgive me."

_Beep._

He dried a tear.

He ate the dinner without being hungry at all, then he set himself to go to sleep. But first he made a last call. He expected the usual monotonous voice, but this time Sherlock's phone rang. John closed the call immediately, heart racing and hands sweating. It took him some minutes to regain his composure. Maybe Sherlock wanted to talk with him now. He called back.

_Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Leave a message._

Damn. Damn. Damn. He abode by what he had thought to say before that ring.

"Just wanted to say goodnight. I hope you're ok. I…still miss you."

When he woke up, he had a shower, a small breakfast and picked up his phone one more time.

_Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Leave a message._

"Good morning, Sherlock. It's a…sunny day here in London, if you aren't in London and might want to know that. And if you actually are in London, well, it's a sunny day nevertheless. I haven't slept well, but I hope you have…I still don't know why I am talking to your voicemail. I must have gone mad."

_Beep._

Call back.

_Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Leave a message._

"When you spoke, you talked about the kiss we shared. The one I thought it was the seal of our mutual attraction and that, instead, became my nightmare. I…it has been the most meaningful thing to me. And Sherlock…I don't know how I can make you understand it, but…while I understand your reasons I need you to listen to me now. As I've listened to you that evening."

_Beep._

Call back.

_Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Leave a message._

"When Lestrade called me to inform me you had disappeared, I desired to punch him in the face, because already four days had passed. And I felt helpless. I couldn't bear to lose you. And you…got even shot. And I thought I could really lose you. And I can't bear the thought of it. Sherlock, I can't live without you. No matter if you think you're not the right person for me, because I know…"

_Beep._

Damn. Call back.

_Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Leave a message._

"…I know that you are the right person for me. There can be no other who could take your place. There exist no other as clever, as intelligent, as brilliant, as…gorgeous as you. You might consider yourself arrogant, egocentric, unable to understand sentiment. But you are just Sherlock to me, the man I love. The man I'm willing to die for."

_Beep._

Call back.

_Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Leave a message._

"And I don't care whatever the other people may think about you. I don't really _fucking_ care. Because, for me, you're everything that counts. Everything. I can repeat it to the infinite and beyond. You're the person I want. I won't get tired of you. How could I? How could you even think about it? I once said that you are impossible. I still support that thought. You're impossibly perfect."

_Beep._

Call back.

_Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Leave a message._

"And I don't even know how can you like someone like me. Me! John Watson, a nobody. But a nobody that beside you feels great, but without you…I feel lost. And Sherlock: I mean it. Every single word. I mean it. Please, come back. I love you. I love every single thing about you. Even if you can't believe it…give me the possibility to prove it to you. Please, Sherlock."

_Beep._

Call back.

_Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Leave a message._

"Let me show you the qualities you have. Let me be by your side. Let me love you. Please. Whatever will happen in the future, I won't ever regret my love for you. It's a plea, a prayer, a promise. I will never ever regret it. Because staying with you it's not a waste of time. Just this time, Sherlock…believe me. I think that's all."

_Beep._

Call back.

_Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Leave a message._

"No, sorry. There's one more thing: I love you."

John closed the last call and got up. It was only ten a.m. . He ate a very light lunch, then started to watch some TV, without really following what was happening on the screen. Nothing happened. He was almost falling asleep when his mobile phone buzzed. He picked it up so quickly that, in the end, it fell on the floor with a bang.

"Shit!"

He took it in the hands one more time. It had switched off and John furiously switched it back on. Two new messages. Sherlock. He wasn't ready to read them. He wasn't really ready to read them. Yet he did.

_I've listened to all your messages. –SH._

_And I thought about it. –SH._

John held his breath. Was that all? He hadn't even the time to think about it that the phone buzzed again.

_What about a dinner together this evening? –SH._

If John hadn't been sitting on the armchair, he swore that he would have probably fainted down on the floor. Hands shaking, but with an amused smile on his face he answered.

_Starving! – John._

_Where to? –John._

_Angelo's. 22 Northumberland Street. Eight p.m. –SH._

_Ok. – John._

John's heart started to race at the mere thought of it. He was going out with Sherlock. And, even if he had still doubts, it seemed to him that it was a meeting that strictly resembled a date. His heart danced a waltz at the idea. The phone buzzed one more time.

_22 messages in the voicemail. Yes, you've definitely gone mad. –SH._

Arrogant, impossible git. His arrogant, impossible, perfect git. His Sherlock. John smiled brighter.


	27. Please, Teach Me

If one had asked John how he was feeling at 6 p.m. of that mid-March Tuesday, he would have probably replied that he felt nervous. The problem was, actually, that 'nervous' wasn't even remotely near to what he had within. There was a full ocean of feelings rumbling, roaring, crying inside his chest and his heart seemed to him a ship doomed to wreck, to be swallowed by the abyss below. And he, he was standing on the verge of that ship amid joy, fear and hope, undecided whether to let himself go down or desperately cling to it.

For John, despite the joy, felt helpless one more time. Sending messages to an un-answering voicemail was one thing, but speaking directly to Sherlock was another. Doubts had gathered in his mind as the time of the meeting approached and he wasn't anymore that certain that Sherlock had asked him out for dinner because he held a positive answer to his plea. Nevertheless John tried to keep himself as positive as he could be.

At six-thirty he had a shower. A long, warm, reinvigorating shower. He spent a long time under the stream of water without doing much except for enjoying the warm water beating on his skin. It was a very well welcomed noise, that seemed to wash some of his doubts away. He slowly soaped himself with his favourite scented shower gel: eucalyptus, lemon and bergamot. There were different reasons why it was his favourite, but the first was that it remembered him of a holiday he had done with his family when he was a child. He massaged every muscle to relieve them from the stress they were undergoing right now. Every fibre of his body, matter-of-factly, was in tension and he had to work a bit to soften them. It took him thirty minutes to come out from the shower, one of the longest he had ever had. But he felt slightly better and more prone to be positive about the encounter with the young man.

He sat on his bed, wrapped in his bathrobe, looking at the wardrobe in front of him. He had to choose something to put on. Which, considerably enough, was a hard task for John H. Watson. He didn't want to be much elegant (not that he had incredibly elegant clothes, to be honest) because that would have meant that he was surely expecting a positive answer. And he didn't want to put pressure on Sherlock with that. On the other side he didn't want to look like the usual John. He _always_ wore knit jumpers, loose shirts and jeans. The apex of his fashion style had been when he had gone out with…Laura. In the end he decided for a comfortable, but smart V-necked blue jumper, a blue-white tartan patterned shirt and blue trousers. Rather fashionable, but not posh. He returned to the bathroom, combed his hair at his best and found himself smiling at the mirror. He looked like a teenager at his first date, all happy and excited. Yes, he definitely felt like a teenager.

Part of his fears had soothed because, he had somehow realised while putting on the shirt, Sherlock didn't usually invite people out for dinner. And if that weren't a positive signal, he swore that all his life was probably a lie.

At seven-thirty he hailed a taxi, gave the address to the cabby and tried to not show how overwrought he was.

The second day of spring, as that Tuesday happened to be, wasn't much springy. The sky was mostly clear, but there were dark clouds gathering on the horizon. Moreover there was a freezing strong wind blowing, which had made him shiver when he had exited his flat. It looked like more of a winter day than a spring one.

At ten to eight, the taxi dropped him off exactly in front of Angelo's. He gave a look at the restaurant. It was a small and rather informal place with a big window, giving John the opportunity to see its interior quite clearly. There were small dark wooden tables surrounded by musk green divans just behind the window. One was occupied by a family, the second one, the nearest to the door, was empty. Three lamps hanged from the ceiling above and slightly lit the place up.

John looked around to see if Sherlock was there, but he didn't see anyone. At eight, there was still no sign of Sherlock and John's fears started to grow again. But at two past eight a familiar tall figure appeared just behind the opposite corner walking towards him. He exhaled in relief. Sherlock was wearing his usual long blue coat, from which a sleeve swung loose, showing no left arm in it. His hair danced in the wind and John couldn't help but stare at the vision. Long, lean legs appeared from the coat as the young man placed one step before the other and he was sure that he could have watched such a delightful walking forever and never get tired of it. The blood pumped in his veins faster as the young man's figure became bigger and bigger at the approach. When Sherlock was just one metre away from him, John was more than sure that he was of a scarlet colour from the base of his neck to the tip of his ears. But, to his extreme surprise, Sherlock's cheek were also quite red and that, if possible, made him redder.

"Evening.", he managed to mutter, while he was desperately struggling to not surrender to his shaking knees.

"Evening.", answered Sherlock, whose voice seemed a bit unstable too "And sorry for the slight delay."

John shook his head.

"You aren't that late. I've just arrived."

"Liar. You've been here waiting for…at least ten minutes."

Trust Sherlock to be the usual smartass, thought John, but smiled.

"As I said: just arrived."

Sherlock replied with a smile too.

"Let's go in?", he asked.

"Sure."

Luckily the restaurant was warm and dim, because first John was starting to feel frozen to the bones, second the dim light quite hid his red face. He took off his jacket and Sherlock did the same with his coat using his right hand, being his left arm still held up with a bandage that went around his neck.

Yet John coughed to hide a gulp of pleasure. Sherlock was wearing a black suit with a white shirt that fitted him perfectly. One could have easily mistaken him for a model or an actor with that outfit. Plus, the white shirt Sherlock was wearing was a bit tight on the chest and the two uppermost buttons were open, leaving the pale skin underneath exposed. No, John was wrong. He didn't look like a model or an actor. He looked like perfection itself. Suddenly John felt extremely embarrassed for his homey outfit and his ordinary looking face. But Sherlock didn't seem to mind.

"It fits you.", the young man said, indicating John's jumper "It matches your eyes."

John muttered something intelligible that sounded like a 'thanks', but he wasn't even sure the word came out of his mouth.

They sat down on the empty table near the window, where a note, that John hadn't noticed from the outside, with the name 'Holmes' was placed.

"Ahem.", John cleared his throat "How's your shoulder?"

Sherlock smiled wryly.

"Let's say I can't play the violin for a while yet. But I think that being still alive is quite more important, isn't it?"

John nodded, but lowered his eyes, embarrassed about how carelessly Sherlock was taking his own possible death.

"I was joking.", said the young man calmly "I don't have the slightest intention to die for a very long time."

"Neither do I.", smiled John this time.

The conversation was interrupted by a plangent deep voice with a strong Italian accent.

"Sherlock!"

A bulky middle-aged man with a chubby face walked to their table and shook Sherlock's hand with such lively passion that John thought he was going to disarticulate the young man's shoulder.

"John,", the young man said "this is Angelo, the owner. Angelo, this is John, a…friend of mine."

John stretched out his hand to shake the man's.

"How are you, Sherlock?", Angelo asked "Your brother told me about the accident. And threatened to kill me if I let escape a single word. What kind of person did he think I am?"

"A burglar and a fraudster. Which, actually, is the truth."

John gawked.

"But when it comes to you, I'm an honest man, Sherlock! You break my heart by telling me that!", he replied, theatrically gripping his chest with his hand "I will never betray your trust. You saved me from a murder inquiry!"

"Just because you were house-breaking in the opposite side of the city.", Sherlock smirked.

"And I'll never thank you enough for that! Choose whatever you like on the menu, it's on the house!", and he shouted to a young boy who was serving another table "Tommy, bring a bottle of Soave to Sherlock and his date!"

At the word 'date', John's red face became redder and he tried to bury himself behind the menu. Sherlock softly smiled.

"Has he said something wrong?", he asked John.

John emerged from the menu.

"No. Ahem. No.", he muttered "I think…no."

"Good."

Then the young man changed the topic completely and John regained some of his composure.

"I think I'll take 'Linguine allo scoglio" as main course and… 'Sogliola alla griglia', as second course. You?"

"Ahem. I guess I'll take the same.", he smiled to Sherlock.

The wine arrived and Angelo came to take the order.

"Two 'Linguine allo Scoglio' and two 'Sogliole alla griglia'."

"Perfect, Sherlock.", the owner said, walking away.

Sherlock turned to the window and John didn't know what to say, so he picked up the first thing he had in mind.

"Good Italian accent.", he said "Not that I'm an expert, but there was no English inflection when you spoke those words."

Sherlock turned back to John and John, amused, noticed a little more redness on the young man's cheeks.

"Thank you. Or should I say 'grazie'?"

John replied with a smirk.

"Have you studied it? The Italian language, I mean."

"Needed it for a case two years ago. I was impersonating an Italian gentleman on a business trip in London. There was the suspect that some guys from a notorious Italian mafia family had an accomplice inside one of the most important bank in England. So I had to study it."

"Do you ever do something that is not related to your supposed work?", John teased.

"Well, dating a professor has nothing to do with my work. Then, I suppose I do.", Sherlock slyly answered.

John's heartbeat became so loud that it echoed in his ears.

"W-what?", was all he was able to utter.

"You're once again making me repeat the obvious.", replied the young man "But I think you understood it clearly, so there's no need to say it again."

Angelo arrived with their dishes in that exact moment, but John almost didn't notice.

"So you…", John continued.

Sherlock took a deep breath.

"Yes. I have…thought about it.", he said, himself also completely unaware of the pasta on the table "John, in the hospital with you I felt…good. It was nice and familiar and I can't recall another time in my recent life when I felt that good with someone. Maybe I've never felt that good with anyone."

John swallowed.

"But I still thought that I was right about not pursuing a relationship with you. I still thought that I didn't deserve you. Then I went back home and I discovered that…I missed you. I missed your constant presence beside me, because you made me feel better and I felt lost without your smile, your jokes, your friendship even after I had said those horrible things…You stayed. You didn't go away. And I was risking to lose something like that."

The young man's voice was becoming a little shaky and John found his hands travelling across the table to meet Sherlock's one.

"I had to think. I had to understand it. And when I've listened to all your messages I felt the warmth, the strength you put into them, John. So, John, I have got a request for you…"

John held his breath, sensing his heart on the verge of a heart failure.

"Please, please teach me how to dream, for I long to be more than a machine…"

John looked at the young man a bit confused.

"Why are you saying that? You aren't a machine! You're a human being! The best…"

"You said that.", Sherlock interrupted.

It took John some seconds to remember it. Yes, he had said that. Oh, god. But he hadn't meant it.

"Yes, Sherlock. I told you that, but I was…angry that time. And confused about your feelings for me and my feelings for you. I really didn't…"

"But you were right.", interrupted Sherlock once more "And I know that. But you, you, John. You made me understand that I don't want to be like that anymore. I want to feel my feelings. But I need your help. Because it's only with you that I feel this way. It's only with you that _this_ can work. Teach me, John. Teach me how to dream. With you."

And one more time in his life John was extremely grateful that he was sitting, for he was sure that his whole body was failing to work properly.

"Sherlock.", said John in a serious tone, but unable to contain his smile "If you ever say that you are an emotionless machine after what I've just heard coming out from your mouth, I swear I will punch you. That was…", he exhaled "the best love declaration I've ever heard in my whole life. And if I ever say something similar again, you'll have the right to punch me harder. And the answer to your request is that yes, I will help. But it's quite useless since you're making already me feel like I'm in a dream."

Sherlock gave John a rare, sweet smile. John slightly stroked Sherlock's back of the hand.

"You know I'll be moody, lunatic, arrogant, egocentric. You know that there will be days where I'll be insufferable. You know that?", Sherlock asked "I'm not the perfect man you think I am."

"I have to change my statement: I swear I will punch you right now unless you stop with that nonsense.", replied John "I thought I have stated rather clearly that you are what I want. Yes, with your moody, lunatic, arrogant and whatever other adjective you like character. And I am in love with you. With _you_. And you're making me repeat the obvious."

Sherlock smiled brighter. Much brighter than John had ever seen.

"I…am so grateful to you, John. I have no words to express it."

"Believe me, Sherlock, you've already expressed it well enough."

"So…", tentatively asked the young man "this means we're together?"

"I want to remind you that _you_ are the one who said you're dating me. And I'm certainly not going to deny that!"

John smiled, happy, the happiest he had ever been in his life. It was the second day of spring, outside the window had started to rain, but his heart was blooming with the flowers of love. And Sherlock looked much like John. His aquamarine eyes were glittering in the dim light of the restaurant and he seemed the happiest John had ever seen.

"Well.", the young man said "We'd better eat. Cold Linguine allo scoglio is not something worth eating. And I don't really want to spoil such an evening…"

John nodded and started to harpoon the pasta, aware all of a sudden that he was starving.

"It's…delicious.", he said, biting some pasta with a mussel.

Sherlock hummed in response.

"Best Italian restaurant in London.", he said "And almost no one knows about it."

"I'm lucky you do.", replied John "How did you discover it?"

"Well, you've heard me. I arrested Angelo."

John started to giggle, immediately followed by Sherlock.

They kept on eating and, now and then, holding hands in the dim, cosy atmosphere of the place. They talked about other cases that Sherlock had solved, they chatted about John's university years, they mostly demonstrated how much they were in love with each other.

After the dessert and a coffee, John helped Sherlock to put on the coat and they went out. Sherlock and John would have wanted to pay, but Angelo had been unmovable.

"It's on the house, Sherlock. Always for you.", he had repeated in his strong Italian accent.

Now they were walking in the street side by side, aimlessly. Neither John nor Sherlock wanted to go home, because that would have meant to break the magic dream they were in. It was slightly drizzling, but neither of them seemed to mind. They just walked under the grey sky of London with the sun within their hearts. John hesitantly stretched out his left hand to hold Sherlock's. In the restaurant it had been a private gesture and John hadn't felt that much embarrassed, but doing it in public was a complete new matter. His cheeks reddened at the contact. But Sherlock answered the touch grabbing it fiercely with his. John glanced at the young man and saw that his cheeks were also pink. He smiled more. He couldn't help but keeping on smiling.

An indefinite amount of walking later, just enjoying the proximity with each other, John broke the silence.

"I think we should go home now.", he said taking a quick look at the watch "It's almost eleven p.m. and you need to sleep or your arm will never heal properly."

Sherlock looked at John, but said nothing. He seemed lost in distant thoughts John couldn't quite catch. Then he spoke.

"Can I sleep with you tonight?", he asked in a whisper.

John gulped and his mouth fell open at the same time.

"I…don't mean sexually!", Sherlock quickly explained "Just…sleeping. I slept better in the hospital those afternoons when I was tired and you were there…"

John looked at him, still.

"…but if you don't want…", continued Sherlock, glancing down "I'm sorry I've asked."

"No, Sherlock. Sorry. I'd love it. Just…I was a bit shocked. I didn't think that you would…"

"It's just sleeping.", a vulnerable glimpse in his aquamarine eyes.

"Of course you can.", eventually replied John, firm.

Sherlock smiled.

"Grazie.", he whispered softly, squeezing John's hand in his.

John smiled. Trust Sherlock to be the only one person in the world able to ask something like that during a first date. And John loved him for that too. But John also knew, deep in his heart, it wasn't their first date at all. They had been somehow dating since day one. They had just made it official.

They hailed a taxi and returned to John's flat.

* * *

**Short note:**

**There is absolutely NO disapproval, nor racism towards Angelo's way of speaking. I am Italian, so, if you find "racist" my remarks about his accent, know that they are NOT.**


	28. How To Dream

**AN: It's been a while since I last thanked you, you all my lovely readers! Know that I read all your lovely comments and I'm overly happy that you're enjoying this story until now! It makes my heart fill with happiness and joy! So...thank you from the deepest depth (does it have any logical sense?) of my heart for your constant support!**

**And...enjoy the chapter!**

* * *

As they entered the flat, John smirked wryly.

"I suppose I have to introduce you to my flat. It's not big, but it's rather comfortable", he teased.

"May I remind you that I've already been in your flat?, grinned Sherlock.

"Uninvited.", replied John with an amused face "I was just making it official. This is the first time you enter my flat with my permission."

"No need to be that _formal_, John. I think we're well beyond it."

"And formalities are still boring, uh?"

"They have never been interesting. Not in the slightest. Especially with you."

"I still suppose that that was a compliment."

"Might have been, yes."

John smiled a soft smile. He was happy to see that, even after what had just happened, their conversations hadn't changed at all. That reassured him in a way he couldn't even express properly. Nevertheless he had to admit that what they were about to do was beyond the word 'ordinary' and overly close to the word 'awkward'. Or, at least, it seemed so. For what couple (and they were a couple, right? He still couldn't quite believe that everything was real) did sleep together after day one of their relationship? Yet he didn't feel extremely awkward to him. No matter how his brain tried to tell him that, he thought it was familiar, and intimate, and good. The only thing he wasn't really prepared for was being such close to Sherlock the whole night. And, oh, getting to see Sherlock in…in what? He didn't have a pyjama with him and John's ones weren't of his size. Now, _that_ was a thing that made him think. And turn red. Still, it didn't feel awkward. Just different. Yet he swallowed hard at the idea.

"Ahem. May I offer you something to drink?", John said, waking towards the fridge.

Sherlock shook his head.

"No, thanks. I've had rather enough of that Soave."

"Oh. Ok."

"Plus I guess that the word _sleeping_", he smirked, but John noticed Sherlock's eyes turning away and his cheeks going slight pink "actually involves _sleeping_. And I remember, but you may contradict me, that sleeping usually involves a bed, of which presence in this flat I'm quite certain."

"You're clever!", answered John, grinning.

"You've been saying it a lot, lately. I might get overused to it. So…lead the way or do I have to find it by myself?", Sherlock grinned in response.

"Find it by yourself. I need to use the bathroom."

As he walked in the corridor to reach the bathroom, while Sherlock went to his bedroom, the thought that they sounded like a married couple crossed his mind. He giggled softly and drove the silly thought away. When he went back to the bedroom, the door was closed. Sherlock had probably heard him approaching, because a muffled voice came from behind it.

"Give me thirty seconds."

Good, thought John. At least he shouldn't have seen the young man's striptease. That was a relief. He wasn't that sure that he could have avoided to get an erection if he had seen that. And Sherlock had been specific: it was just sleeping. Because sleeping with John made him comfortable. And John, although he had considered it an ordinary task (like, dunno, doing shopping) until that moment, he found out that he wasn't really ready to see a half-naked Sherlock without getting excited somehow. And that would have made the things more than uncomfortable. Yet he still did want to sleep with Sherlock, feeling him near, knowing that it was real and not a crazy dream.

"You can enter.", the baritone voice interrupted his thoughts.

That was it. He inhaled and exhaled. Then entered. John immediately noticed that his black suit, his shoes and his socks were lying on the chair near the window, but he hadn't taken off his shirt. John wondered whether it was for he couldn't do it due to the wound or because he knew that John would have felt embarrassed if he did. The second option seemed the most probable.

Plus, the young man had chosen the left side of the double bed, his legs were completely under the duvet, but his upper body, clad with the shirt, was leaning on the pillow that Sherlock had placed against the headboard. Completely ordinary. John sighed in relief. Sherlock turned to him.

"I've chosen the left side because of my shoulder.", he patted it "And I still can't sleep fully lying on the mattress."

"Yes, I know.", John answered "I've been there myself."

Now there was another problem he hadn't quite considered. He needed to undress himself. In front of Sherlock. Oh, god. Why hadn't he thought about that? He froze on the spot. The young man seemed to read his mind.

"I can close my eyes while you put on your pyjama. I don't want you to feel ashamed."

John would have loved to answer that there was no problem, that Sherlock could keep his eyes open, that he was at ease with his body. The fact was that he wasn't. Therefore he found himself nodding and thanking Sherlock for his courtesy.

"Thanks."

Sherlock closed his eyes and turned the head to the window to make clear he wasn't looking at all. John started to undress.

"How did it happen?", the young man questioned, while John was taking off his jumper.

"Happened what?", he furrowed.

"The circumstances of your shooting. The wound in your left shoulder. How did it happen?"

John stayed in silence, thinking about it. It wasn't a topic he was really eager to talk about.

"No problem if you don't want to talk about it."

But he was Sherlock. The man and only one person in the world he was sure he was going to stay with for the rest of his life.

"No, sorry. I was just…thinking.", he took off his trousers "It happened…one year ago."

Damn. Had it really passed one year? With all those troubles in his mind he had forgot it. Completely. He had thought that he would have never forgot the day, but Sherlock had been kidnapped, tortured and almost killed, and he hadn't had the time to think about his wound.

"I was…", the memory appeared vivid in his mind "…patrolling a zone."

"Are doctors supposed to do that?", asked Sherlock, quite confused.

"Not really. But it's war. I had to look constantly for injured and wounded people. So one day I decided to serve my duty as a soldier more than only as a doctor. As you would put it: it was the danger."

He took off his shirt, Sherlock, still eyes closed, smirked.

"Anyway. I was patrolling a road in a small village near Kandahar, so small that it didn't even have a proper name. I was inside what was considered a 'safe zone' when I heard an explosion in the market nearby, a dozen of metres from where I was standing. I moved to check what had happened, to see how many injured people there were. Two comrades did the same. As soon as I stepped out of the safe zone, there came the bang. It still echoes in my ears. It's the only thing I remember vividly. I do remember the pain, obviously. But the bang, the sensation that that sound had almost ripped my arm off, that I will never forget. I ran back to the safe zone, blood on my uniform and almost managed to break a leg. The psychosomatic trauma you talked about. It didn't happen anything to the leg, just a small strain. But it remembered me of the shot, of the run, of the fear. And it hurt more than the actual wound."

John had put on the pyjama while he was talking and now, absent-mindedly, rolled himself under the duvet, only aware of Sherlock's presence when he was fully under it. He stiffened. He could feel the comfortable warmth of another human being beside him. It had been a long time since he last felt a similar sensation. And Sherlock's warmth, in his opinion, was soft and somehow graceful like the man himself. It smelt and felt like home. The young man turned his head to John and reopened his eyes. Aquamarine eyes in the dark light of the room. They glittered like stars. John gulped but his body slowly relaxed. There was no touch between the two bodies, just the warmth to join them under the duvet. A connection well sought. A connection that made John feel good.

"I'm sorry.", said Sherlock.

"About what?"

"The shot. The pain you had to suffer."

"You have been shot too. You know how does it feel."

"No. It's different. Mine was a gunshot. Yours was a rifle's. It hurt thousand times more."

"It has soothed since then. What hurt more was the long time I spent in the hospital, alone.", John's words slipped out of his mouth.

"I'm sorry about that too.", Sherlock replied, quite concerned.

John could see he wasn't faking his worry. In the darkness, half hidden by it, Sherlock could just be Sherlock, a human being with his feelings, his worries, his humanity. John stretched out his hand and cupped Sherlock's.

"It has passed.", he whispered, reassuringly.

Sherlock nodded.

"I think it's your turn now.", he said.

"Turn for what?", asked John puzzled

"Uncomfortable questions.", Sherlock smirked "I've asked you one, so it's your turn."

John had a question in his mind. The question that had been bugging him for months. The question he had wanted to ask forever. Yet he asked something else.

"The explosion at university.", he said "How did it happen?"

"That's not even near uncomfortable.", Sherlock furrowed.

"I'm curious."

"Mmmf. Ok.", replied the young man "I had a two hours break between an organic chemistry lesson and a biology one. I sneaked into the laboratory, which was locked. But let's say that I have got my ways to open it."

John grinned. Yes, he was sure that Sherlock had got his ways to do it.

"I had brought some material from home with me. There was a reaction I wanted to verify but couldn't do it at home because it wasn't safe enough. The experiment proceeded perfectly until the fourth stage, then I guess that the gunpowder badly reacted with the citric acid. Or maybe it was the lactic acid with the nitro-glycerine. I can't remember. I just had the time to exit from the room and it went…well, boom."

John gawked.

"So you're basically saying that you have blown up a laboratory with nitro-glycerine?"

"Might have, yes.", Sherlock innocently answered.

"I'm surprised they didn't expel you from the university."

"It's not surprise at all. Its name is Mycroft, not 'surprise'.", he huffed.

"Are you telling me that you were trying to be expelled?"

"With all my strength.", he mischievously smiled.

"But…why?"

The idea that someone brilliant as Sherlock could purposely try to get expelled made him rather furious.

"I was bored.", the young man replied "Two days in that place and it was already being boring as hell."

"How could you say that? Only two days had passed!"

"Well, for example, there wasn't you.", Sherlock grinned slyly "And the other teachers are a walking nightmare."

John couldn't help but roll his eyes and smile at the same time.

"So you consider me a good teacher? I'm rubbish at it."

"Quite the contrary. Your lessons are heartfelt and students have already praised you a lot for that. And your knowledge of the subject is rather remarkable, considering you're a doctor and not a chemistry professor."

It was, probably, the first sincere compliment that Sherlock had ever said to him. John flushed in the dark room.

"You think my lessons are boring, do not try to fool me with these flatteries!", he joked.

"I do think that almost everything on this planet is boring. And your lessons are less boring than whatever other lesson I have ever had the disgrace to attend."

"Oh.", John cleared his throat, flushing more "Nice."

Another thought appeared in John's mind. It hadn't really crossed his mind before, because it had been unlikely to happen, but now it was different.

"Speaking of which…", he said "I think I have to resign."

Sherlock's eyes blazed in the darkness.

"What? No!", he replied "Why on Earth would you do that?"

John gawked, astonished. Was Sherlock really that oblivious about how the world worked?

"Because, Sherlock,", he explained calmly "at the moment I'm in a bed with you. Because we have decided to stay…", he couldn't still quite believe it "…together. And a professor and a student officially together is not something that the university is looking forward to. So I guess that resigning _is_ the best solution."

"Rules. Always rules.", Sherlock huffed, heavily annoyed.

"I don't want to cause troubles to Mike. He's been kind with me."

"Anyway I won't be back until the shoulder is fully recovered.", said Sherlock "I probably won't return before May, so you can stay."

"I will still have to resign in May.", John remarked.

"My brother could arrange a deal if you wish to stay."

"I do not, if that means hiding our relationship from everyone. Moreover I think it's time for me to find a proper job. And it's also time for you to graduate."

"I could do it in no time."

"Then do it."

"You know I get distracted."

"I'll personally verify that the distractions won't be many."

"Don't you dare! I know you liked the distractions I provided you with."

"Point and match.", John grinned "Still: you have to graduate. And I assure you that I'll put every single effort in that."

"Bossy, aren't we?"

"Look who's talking!"

Sherlock giggled and John started to giggle too. In the darkness of the room all one could see were two people in love and the sound of it echoing on the walls. John had never felt so happy in his whole life.

"Is it some sort of dream?", he asked smiling.

"Why do you say so?"

"Because I've never felt so much happiness in my heart. I think it's going to explode from happiness. And I'm scared that it's just a good dream. That tomorrow I'll wake up and it's gone. I'm here with the most gorgeous man I've ever known and it feel like a dream."

"Don't be stupid, John. Last time I've checked I can assure you I'm as real as you can see. Plus there's no such thing as a heart exploding from happiness."

"I love you too, Sherlock.", John smiled, rolling his eyes.

Sherlock squeezed his hand.

"I reciprocate the feeling.", he answered "But you're a liar."

"A…what? Why?", John's mouth fell open.

"You said that you like my arrogant, moody, lunatic character. And don't tell me it's the truth, because it's a pathetic lie.", he half-smiled.

"Oh, Sherlock!", John sighed "Are you really analysing every word I say? I said that I like you. Yes, with your arrogant behaviour."

Sherlock gawked.

"Mind you that it doesn't mean that I'll accept it every time. You know I already don't. But it's part of you and I like you. Yes, with your arrogant way of being. Because hadn't it been for how arrogantly, brilliantly you answered me the day we met, we wouldn't have been here now. Always remember that."

Sherlock furrowed and raised an inquiring eyebrow.

"Are you serious?"

"Of course I am! Hadn't you been the way you are, do you think we would have been here?"

"It goes the same for you. Hadn't you been that interesting that day, I would have never considered you. But there's a lot of other things I've learnt to like about you, that's for sure. And I will never stop asking myself how is it possible that you do like me."

"Will that brilliant brain of yours ever stop to overthink and accept the goddamn truth?", John threatened.

"Maybe.", the young man smiled "If you teach me. And don't tell me you aren't a good teacher. Look at what you've done to me! I'm all sentiment and such, thanks to your teaching."

John chuckled.

"What's that?"

"That's the second sincere compliment in one evening. I'm still not quite used to it. So slow down or I'll die of heart attack."

"You're too young and too fit to have an heart attack."

"Third compliment. I'm definitely dying.", he giggled louder, tears in his eyes.

He felt so good and so comfortable that he started to think he could have stayed in that bed forever.

When the giggles finished, silence fell in the room. John stayed still, eyes fixed in the aquamarine of Sherlock's, wanting the night to last. His slightly ruffled curls on the white of the pillow, his right hand intertwined with his, his rosy cupid bow lips standing out on his pale skin, the slight redness on his cheeks. John still thought it was a dream. The most beautiful dream, because it was real. They stayed in each other's contemplation for a while.

"John…", Sherlock said at a certain point.

"Yes?", asked John, feeling sleepy.

"You are a liar for another reason."

"What reason?"

"The uncomfortable question."

Yes, thought John. It was the truth, he had lied. He had asked another question, not the one he had in mind.

"You wanted to ask about the rehab.", Sherlock quietly said "I saw it in your eyes."

"Yes.", sighed John "I did. But I don't think it's time to talk about it now. I know it's not your favourite topic."

"I want to talk to you about it, John.", the young man continued "I want you to know about it."

John sensed the other man's body tense under the duvet. He held his hand stronger and slightly stroked it.

"My head, John, is noisy. There are thoughts that spin inside at a speed of light's pace. When I'm not busy with something, these thoughts haunt me. They make me feel bad and I can't silence them. It's like having a train at full speed that can't stop. You might remember in what condition I was when I came here during that night."

John nodded, Sherlock took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

"I tried to silence them. In every possible way. The violin, the writing, the painting, sports even. Nothing worked. I thought I was going mad. Then I fell. It was a slow fall: a bit of alcohol here and there. Not much. Then I've discovered cocaine. Don't ask me how, though. It stopped the noises for a while. It was good. It helped me focus on other matters. But they came back, more violently. I was twenty-one. I switched to heroine. It was perfect."

John made a disgusted face.

"Do not do that face, John. I know it isn't a good thing to say, I'm just trying to explain."

"Sorry, I didn't mean to be rude."

"I know you didn't. Anyway: it was perfect because all the noises in my head ceased. Every single one. My head was finally free from everything. From my fears, from my loneliness, from sentiments. Things didn't improve. I started to live a life that I despise now. Then a man called Lestrade came to arrest a good bunch of people on a drug bust. And he arrested me. Oh, I hated him back then! Mycroft came to Scotland Yard, threatened everyone and I got out. He sent me to the rehab."

Here Sherlock stopped. John could see his eyes bright with fought back tears.

"It was horrible, John! Everyone thought I was a freak, a schizophrenic, a psychopath! Everyone there didn't want me to recover, they wanted me to die! I spent two years there…I came home…different. I had to fight and push my feelings away. It has been the only way I survived in there! I loathed every doctor, every nurse, every single person who made me feel like useless junk, a reject of this society!"

Now Sherlock wasn't holding his tears anymore. They were flowing down his pale cheeks, rivers of sorrow falling on the linen below. John felt a grip in his heart. He slowly moved closed to Sherlock and embraced him with his arms.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock.", he softly whispered, caressing his hair and placing a kiss on his forehead "I'm sorry you had to go through all that. I'm sorry it hurts still."

Sherlock gave John a little smile.

"It doesn't hurt that much if there's you."

"Then I promise I will always be here. Whatever happens, I'll be here shielding you. I might not be the most perfect man on Earth, but knowing I can make you feel better is all I need."

"And you're a pretty good shooter too. In case of emergency.", Sherlock smiled amid the tears.

"I admit it can be a quite useful skill when it comes to you.", he smiled back.

In the blink of an eye, Sherlock softly pressed his lips on John's. It was a wet and soft kiss. Their lips slowly parted, giving space for the other's tongue to slide inside. It was different from the other they had shared. It was slow, warm, full of care. The tongues twisted, melted into each other. John could feel the salty taste of Sherlock's tears on his lips and he wanted to make it vanish with every movement of his lips, with every stroke of his tongue. He languidly captured Sherlock's tongue with his own, caressed it with his own, made love to it with his own. It was not just a kiss. It was a declaration. _I will always be there for you_, that was written in John's kiss. _And I will never let you go_, that was what Sherlock's tongue answered.

When the kiss broke, Sherlock's eyes were red, but dried and somehow _alive_. John had never seen that brightness in those supposed icy eyes.

"I love you, John.", he eventually said "So much."

John's heart filled with instant honey.

"I reciprocate the feeling.", he smirked teasingly, then placed his lips near Sherlock's ear "I love you too, Sherlock. And always will."

Sherlock slightly nodded and they fell in a dreamless sleep. For the dream was already their reality.


	29. A Month In Texting

When John had woken up that morning, Sherlock had been softly sleeping by his side and had been still holding his hand. The light seeping through the window backlit his soft features and contoured his black hair, and John had thought that he wanted to wake up every morning of his life like that. He had slowly untangled his fingers from the young man's, careful to not wake him up, and had gone to the kitchen to prepare some food.

Sherlock had appeared ten minutes later in the kitchen, full dressed with the black suit. John had glanced down at his lousy pyjama and had blushed immediately.

"Morning.", Sherlock had said.

John had noticed that the young man was keeping at distance from him and had the eyes pointing down. John had smiled, knowing that, although they had just slept together, the day was putting the whole matter in a complete new light. He had eventually understood that Sherlock was more comfortable clad by the darkness, and more doubtful in daylight. Not that John hadn't felt nervous at all, for he had been still unsure of himself and of everything.

"Morning.", had answered John with a brighter smile, trying to not sound nervous "Have you slept well?"

Sherlock had simply nodded.

John had moved around the kitchen, taken the kettle and asked:

"What do you like for breakfast? I haven't got much: tea, milk, biscuits and eggs. Also some ham."

"I don't eat breakfast.", Sherlock had replied.

"Don't start already with the 'eating slows me down' nonsense. You will eat and I don't want to hear excuses. Not a puff of air.", John had grinned.

Sherlock had shrugged his shoulders. John had put on the tea and placed a packet of biscuits on the table. Coconut biscuits, his favourites. Sherlock had smirked.

"I was right, then."

"About what?"

"The biscuits, John. It was a shot in the dark, but it seems I got it right."

Oh, yes, had thought John, remembering that once Sherlock had ordered coconut biscuits for him for breakfast that day of December when they had chased that murderous surgeon in Bexley. He had looked at Sherlock agape.

"And you remember that?"

"Of course I do.", had said the young man "I seldom forget important things. And that day is rather sculpted in my mind."

"For other reasons.", had replied John "I'm still sorry for that."

"You have already apologised enough. I'm sorry I haven't understood your reasons back then."

John had smiled.

"Should we just stop apologising to each other and just eat breakfast?", he had asked, serving the tea.

Sherlock had taken one single biscuit under John's gaze and had _played_ with it. He had just kept on crumbling it into smaller crumbs and picking them up one by one with his fingers to eat them. The whole operation had taken ages. John had amusedly watched the scene. Then Sherlock had started to sip his tea, long, lean pale fingers around the handle. There couldn't have been a better image for the typical Englishman.

"John?"

"Uh?"

"I think I have just found another more than remarkable quality of you."

John had furrowed.

"Your tea. It's brilliant. You're the best tea-maker I've ever known."

"And I suppose that this is one of the weirdest compliment I have ever received.", he had smirked, but flushing.

When their unusual breakfast had finished, Sherlock had said he had to go.

"I think it's time for me to go home. My brother should come visit me at eleven this morning. I'd rather avoid it, but I think I'm obliged to attend the meeting.", he had dryly said.

"Well,", had replied John, shyly "It had been…a pleasure."

Sherlock had smiled.

"Formalities!", he had huffed.

And had placed a soft, sweet kiss on John's lips. John hadn't quite expected it.

"I've never slept so well in my entire life, John. Thanks.", he had whispered.

John hadn't replied but kissed Sherlock back.

Now one month had passed since that Wednesday morning and John and Sherlock were properly dating, even if dating with Sherlock hadn't anything proper at all in it. John was sitting on his armchair and was thinking about taking Sherlock out for their first month together. It was a lovely Friday afternoon of April and John was rereading all the messages they had exchanged during the last month. They were funny, romantic and heart-warming. Sherlock didn't like to call, John had learnt that rather early in their relationship, but he definitely loved to text John, whatever the occasion was.

_Wednesday, 23__rd__ March, 11.00_

_I'm bored. And my brother is pissing me off. –SH._

_Be nice with him, Sherlock. –John._

_He's the one who's not nice with me. He wants me to go to see a physiotherapist. –SH._

_It's a good idea. Your arm will surely benefit from it. –John._

_… __-SH._

_I thought that you were by my side. –SH._

_Oh, god. Obviously I am. That's why you should go to that physiotherapist. –John._

_I care about your health. –John._

_…__ok. I'll go. –SH._

_Love you. –John._

_Don't you dare! –SH._

_Wednesday, 23__rd__ March, 13.02_

_How did it go? –John._

_Awfully. I hate her. –SH._

_You could be my physiotherapist. –SH._

_I can't, you know. I'm not specialised in that. –John._

_You're thousand times better than her. –SH._

_I take the compliment. Anyway I'm sure she's good. –John._

_Whatever. –SH._

_Yes, whatever. –John._

_Wednesday, 23__rd__ March, 22.15_

_Are you sleeping? –SH._

_No, watching telly. –John._

_Television. –SH._

_What?-John._

_Don't use 'telly'. –SH._

_Telly. Telly. Telly. –John._

_You are NOT funny at all. –SH._

_I can hear your chuckles. –John._

_You're too far away to hear that. –SH._

_So you ARE actually chuckling! –John._

_It seems that my company does you good. Your deducting skills are improving. –SH._

_Love you. –John._

_Love you too. –SH._

_Goodnight, John. –SH._

_Goodnight, Sherlock. –John._

John smiled and went on reading.

_Thursday 24__th__ March, 7.30 _

_Good morning. –John._

_Do you really wake up this late? –SH._

_Have you even slept tonight? –John. _

_Thursday 24__th__ March, 8.30_

_I take it as a 'no'. –John._

_You weren't here. Couldn't sleep. –SH._

_That's sweet of you. –John._

_It's not sweet, it's a matter-of-fact observation. –SH._

_Good morning, John. –John._

_Why are you writing that? –SH._

_Because you didn't say it. –John._

_Oh. Sorry. You know. Not good at it. –SH._

_Good morning, John. –SH._

_Love you. –SH._

_You're learning quickly. –John._

_I've got a good teacher. –SH._

_Love you too. –John._

_Thursday 24__th__ March, 15.00_

_What are you doing? –SH._

_Shopping. Fridge was empty. You? –John._

_Not doing the physiotherapist exercises. –SH._

_Don't you dare to not do them! Or I'll come there and force you. –John._

_Make me. –SH._

_You said that on purpose. –John._

_I don't know what you're talking about. –SH._

_And you're grinning. –John._

_So? Coming or not? –SH._

_Let me pay. –John._

_Paying is boring. –SH._

_You don't want me in jail, do you? –John._

_Hurry up, you're wasting time by typing. –SH._

And John, now sitting on his armchair one month later, remembered himself helping Sherlock lift up his arm, move his fingers, stretch the muscles a bit. He had seen the pain in the young man's eyes with every movement they had done, but Sherlock hadn't let a groan escape his mouth. He had put every effort in it, even pushed himself to the limit. John had tried to explain it wasn't a good thing to do. Sherlock hadn't listened and John had given up. They had chatted a bit and then John had returned to his flat.

_Thursday 24__th__ March, 21.24_

_It's burning. –SH._

_What? –John._

_The shoulder. –SH._

_I knew that. I told you. You shouldn't have worked that hard. –John._

_You told me I should have done the exercises. –SH._

_Not to the point you were almost panting in pain. –John._

_Anyway, take an aspirin and go to sleep. Sleep will do you good. –John._

_You aren't here. Can't sleep. –SH._

_You can and you will. –John._

_Huff. –SH._

_Goodnight. Love you. –John._

_Yes, yes. You still aren't here. –SH._

_We've already discussed about it. I can't sleep in your flat. Or do you want me to resign by tomorrow? –John._

_Don't you dare. –SH._

_Then sleep. –John._

_Goodnight, John. Love you. –SH. _

_Friday 25__th__ March, 10.13_

_Good morning. –SH._

_Good morning. –John._

_Wait. Have you really slept this much? –John._

_Seems so. –SH._

_Wanted to make you happy and proud of me. –SH._

_I'm happy and proud. –John._

_Good to know. –SH._

_Has the pain soothed? –John._

_Yes. It's just a bit stiff, but definitely better. –SH._

_Dinner tonight? –SH._

_Starving! –John._

_You're so predictable. –SH._

_And you're impossible. –John._

_Already falling out of love? –SH._

_Don't you even dare to think that. –John._

_Love you. –John._

_I guess so. –SH._

_Git. –John._

_See? –SH._

_See what? –John._

_You hate me. –SH._

_Should I come to you and snog that thought out of your brilliant, stupid brain? –John._

_Can't now. Working on a cold case. –SH._

_I'll gladly do it tonight. Angelo's? –John._

_20.00. –SH._

The evening had been overly good. They had eaten together, smiled the whole time, held hands, gone for a walk and kissed for a good quarter of hour on a bench in a park like a teenage couple. And John hadn't given a damn about it. Being with Sherlock the whole time had been just…fantastic.

_Saturday 26__th__ March, 00.45_

_Are you awake? –SH._

_Saturday 26__th__ March, 1.05_

_Guess not. –SH._

_I'm bored. –SH._

_Saturday 26__th__ March, 2.03_

_Miss you. –SH._

_Saturday 26__th__ March, 3.16_

_Still sleeping? –SH._

_Was. –John._

_You woke me up. –John._

_Go to sleep, Sherlock. –John._

_Miss you. –SH._

_I miss you too. But, please, sleep. –John._

John, on his armchair, smiled. He loved him so much. He skipped some messages, mostly containing good mornings and good nights.

_Monday 28__th__ March, 7.05_

_Good morning and have a nice day at the university. –SH._

_Good morning, Sherlock. –John._

_Back after three weeks. It will be hard. –John._

_You're great. It will be easy. –SH._

_Especially because you won't be there. –John._

_Oh. –SH._

_I'm going to miss your curly head in the last row. –John._

_Too much flattery. I'm getting glycaemia from all this sweetness. –SH._

_You can't get glycaemia from sweet words. –John._

_I can. –SH._

_Who's the doctor here? –John._

_Bossy. –SH._

_Love you. –SH._

_Don't t turn the tables. –John._

_Love you too. –John._

_Monday 28__th__ March, 9.45_

_Bored. –SH._

_Come to university then. –John._

_You know I can't. –SH._

_You could just find a ridiculous excuse. –John._

_Brother said 'no'. For once I agree. –SH._

_I don't want to mess up the cover story. And I'm not reliable enough to keep my mouth shut. –SH._

_I agree. –John._

_You should have said 'no, Sherlock, you're the most reliable person I know'. –SH._

_That's how a relationship works. –SH._

_Are you lecturing me about relationships? –John._

_Not even trying. –SH._

_Better. –John._

_Got to go now, lesson. –John._

_Have fun. –SH._

John skipped some others and arrived to the series he preferred.

_Saturday 9__th__ April, 10.36_

_Morning, love. –John._

_How did your visit to the hospital go? –John._

_Nightmare. –SH._

_You should have come with me. –SH._

_May I remind you that it was you that didn't want me to come? –John._

_You should have insisted. –SH._

_I did. But you said you could do that alone. That you didn't need a nanny. –John._

_You should have insisted more. –SH._

_Does it cost you that much to say 'sorry, I was wrong'?-John._

_Sorry, I was wrong. –SH._

_Good. –John._

_Thank you. –SH._

_Saturday 9__th__ April, 12.05_

_What are you eating? –SH._

_How can you possibly know I'm eating right now? –John._

_Look through the café's window. –SH._

_Stalker. –John._

_I thought you might have liked a surprise. –SH._

_I do. And if you aren't sitting at my table in 30 seconds I'm going to kill you. –John._

_Too many witnesses. You won't. –SH._

They had eaten a salad together and then decided to go for a stroll in the park. April had proven to be particularly warm that day and Sherlock had worn only the purple shirt John loved so much. John had enjoyed the view so much that he had thought Sherlock would have slapped him for too much gazing. Instead he had just said:

"Have you found anything you don't like of my body?"

"Seriously, do you _really _think that I could find anything I don't like? You're…perfection."

And he had kissed him hard and passionately in the middle of a crowded park, oblivious of everything around. It had been heaven. And John had felt a hot familiar sensation between his tights. He had had to breathe hard to control himself, for he didn't want to spoil anything.

Indeed he wanted to make love with Sherlock, but the young man didn't seem much sure of himself still. And John was happy, so sex wasn't really something that he was missing that much. He knew that it would have eventually come, naturally as it should be.

_Saturday 9__th__ April, 16.40_

_Cinema tonight? –SH._

_Sherlock, I'm right beside you at the moment. Why the hell are you sending me a message? –John._

_Why are you answering, then? –SH._

_You're nuts. –John._

_Yes, anyway. –John._

_Saturday 9__th__ April, 21.27_

_Bored. –SH._

_Sherlock, I'm sitting in the chair next to you at the cinema. –John._

_You can just talk to me directly. –John._

_Didn't want to disturb the other people in the cinema. –SH._

_You're already doing it by spoiling every single plot twist. –John._

_Not my fault if it's so obvious. –SH._

_It's not obvious for them. They haven't got your brain. –John._

_I'm just filling the gaps in the script. –SH._

_I swear I'm never coming with you at the cinema again. –John._

_Why? –SH._

_Am I doing something wrong? –SH._

_I give up. –John._

John, on his armchair three weeks later, was still laughing. Sherlock had literally spoiled every single damn line of the script, had yelled against the protagonist because he had been dumb to not accept the help he had been given, had quarrelled with a young boy about don't-know-what-other-film and, cherry on top, had managed to make the ticket clerk burst into tears because he had told her that her husband was sleeping with her sister.

At the time John hadn't known if he was supposed to laugh, to scold him or to call Lestrade so that he could arrest him.

_Saturday 9__th__ April, 23.53_

_Are you mad at me? –SH._

_I'm not. I just think that going to the cinema with you is…madness. –John._

_I've disappointed you. –SH._

_Sorry, John. I'm truly sorry. –SH._

_You don't have to be sorry, you daft. –John._

_You haven't disappointed me. –John._

_Oh. –SH._

_I actually found it…funny. –John._

_Oh. –SH._

_So you don't hate me? –SH._

_I love you, daft. –John._

_And I love you even when you are brilliantly annoying. –John._

_Oh. –SH._

_Love you too. –SH._

_Goodnight, love. –SH._

_Sweet dreams. –John_

_Sunday 10__th__ April, 2.15_

_John. –SH._

_John, are you sleeping? –SH._

_Sunday 10__th__ April, 2.30_

_John, wake up. –SH._

_Please, please, please. –SH._

_Sunday 10__th__ April, 2.45_

_John. –SH._

_John. –SH._

_John. –SH._

_Sherlock, it's 2.45 in the middle of the night. –John._

_I know what time it is. –SH._

_I miss you. –SH._

_It's still 2.45. –John._

_And I was sleeping. –John._

_I miss you. –SH._

_Seriously. I miss you so much. –SH._

_Sherlock, what's wrong? –John._

_Nothing is wrong. I miss you. –SH._

_Would you call me? –SH._

_What for? –John._

_Need to hear your voice. –SH._

John had picked up the phone that Sunday night and had called Sherlock, rather worried about his health, since the young man had never shown that much affection before.

"John!", had answered Sherlock.

"Sherlock, would you tell me what the hell going on? I'm quite worried."

"Miss you.", he had answered in a soft, sweet whisper.

John had goggled in the darkness of his room.

"And I'm sorry. I ruined an evening with you at the cinema."

"Are you still thinking about that? I said it was ok. I'm not angry."

"I'm an ass."

"You are not."

"You don't hate me, do you?"

"God, I don't, Sherlock."

"I love you, John."

"I love you too.", John had answered, astonished one more time about how vulnerable Sherlock could be.

"Can I come to your place?", Sherlock had asked.

"Wh…now?"

"Please."

"Yes, yes."

And Sherlock had appeared thirty minutes later from a taxi in nightgown and pyjama. The cabby had given both Sherlock and John the worst askance look ever and had driven away as fast as possible. They had slept in each other's arms the whole night.

John, on his armchair three weeks later, could still feel the scent of Sherlock against his skin, the warmth feeling it had given to him. He shivered with pleasure, smiling. He went on.

_Thursday 14__th__ April, 8.00_

_Good morning, professor Watson. –SH._

_Thursday 14__th__ April, 8.15_

_That jumper fits you. –SH._

_Thursday 14__th__ April, 8.30_

_Sherlock? Are you in the classroom? –John._

_No. –SH._

_And how can you possibly know what jumper I am wearing? –John._

_The blonde girl in the third row is doing crosswords. –SH._

_This is creepy. –John._

_Go on with the lesson and stop messaging, they'll notice. –SH._

_Even if you keep your hand under the board. –SH._

_It's you who has started texting me. –John._

_The brunette girl in the first row is writing a letter. –SH._

_This is more than creepy. Where are you? –John._

_The good-looking boy in the second row has a crush on you. –SH._

_What? –John._

_Actually, I think he loves you. –SH._

John had looked at the second row only to spot a red haired young man he had never seen before. He had had medium length straight hair pulled back parted in the middle, dark green eyes behind nerdy glasses. He had worn an electric blue t-shirt and had had a slightly tanned skin. And…(and John had gawked, mouth open at the discovery) had had his left harm bandaged around his neck. Sherlock.

_Thursday 14__th__ April, 8.35_

_You nuts. –John._

_You said you weren't in the classroom. –John._

_I am not. Marcus Larsson is. He is Swedish. He's here to see the university. –SH._

_God, you are unrecognisable. –John._

_I'm the best when it comes to disguises. –SH._

_I've noticed. –John._

_Go on with your lesson. They see you're texting under the table. –SH._

_You are keeping on texting me. –John._

_Not my fault if you are gorgeous in that jumper. –SH._

_Shut up. –John._

_Should I remind you how gorgeously sexy you are? –John._

_Thursday 14__th__ April, 9.06_

_Am I? – SH._

_Thursday 14__th__ April, 9.17_

_No, that message was supposed to be for the young girl behind you. –John._

_Of course you are. –John._

_So funny, John. –SH._

_Really? –SH._

_Sexiness made man. –John._

_That was…unexpected. –SH._

_Glad to have surprised you. –John._

_Keep on lecturing, you're losing the thread. –SH._

_Thursday 14__th__ April, 9.47_

_Nice lesson. –SH._

_I miss your black curls. –John._

_Don't worry. They'll be back by this evening. –SH._

_Why have you come? –John._

_Missed you. –SH._

_You're so sweet. –John._

_Don't ever say that out loud. –SH._

_Dinner tonight? –John._

_Look who's turning the tables now. –SH._

_Yes. –SH._

_Angelo's? –John._

_Why do you bother asking? –SH._

And they had gone to Angelo's once again, candle on their table, holding hands the whole evening.

John had returned home floating metres above the ground.

_Thursday 14__th__ April, 23.15_

_Sexiness made man. –SH._

_What? –John._

_You said that. –SH._

_I know. –John._

_Did you really mean that? –SH._

_Yes. Of course. –John._

_You're sexy too. –SH._

_Liar. –John._

_Thursday 14__th__ April, 23.32_

_We should have sex. –SH._

_WHAT? –John._

_Isn't that what people who like each other do? –SH._

_I physically like you and you physically like me. –SH._

John, on his armchair one week later, clearly remembered he had almost died.

_Thursday 14__th__ April, 23.45_

_John, are you alive? –SH._

_Have I said something wrong? –SH._

_No. –John._

_It was just…unexpected. Very unexpected. –John._

_Why that? –SH._

_Well, it was a bit out of the blue. It usually…doesn't happen that way. –John._

_Just, it should come more naturally. It's not a bureaucratic thing. –John._

_But it's fine. Really. –John._

_Oh. –SH._

_Friday 15__th__ April, 00.13_

_What do you like about me? –SH._

_Physically, I mean. –SH._

_Sherlock, I'm sort of trying to sleep. –John._

_I'm serious. –SH._

_I'm serious too. –John._

_What do you like? –SH._

_Oh god. Everything. –John._

_You're too vague. –SH._

_Your porcelain skin, your darting aquamarine eyes, your black soft curls. –John._

_And your lean body, your rosy lips, your long fingers, especially when tangled with mines. –John._

_Is that enough? –John._

_You're perfection. –John._

_And I'm still asking myself what YOU like about ME. –John._

_Me, with my dry, rough skin, with my hair turning grey, with my shortness. –John._

_Are you joking, right? –SH._

_No. –John._

_John, you're amazingly handsome. –SH._

_Your hands are warm and strong, your hair is of the colour of the sun and the moon. –SH._

_Your soldier body can be seen under your clothes, lean, strong muscles, slightly tanned. –SH._

_And your eyes are soft, caring and deep. I could lose myself for hours into them. –SH._

_And your lips, John, your lips, so sweet to kiss. –SH._

_I'm blushing. –John._

_It's the truth. –SH._

_I love you. –John._

_I love you more. –SH. _

_Friday 15__th__ April, 00.29_

_Imagine me naked on the bed. –SH._

_Can you do it? –SH._

_Sherlock? What are you trying to do? –John._

_Imagine me naked on the bed. –SH._

_Completely naked. –SH._

_Head on the pillow, black curls ruffled. –SH._

_Slightly panting. –SH._

_Legs spread open. –SH._

_Sherlock…oh, god. –John._

_Imagine me touching myself and you over me, watching. –SH._

_Slow touches, very slow. –SH._

_Hands travelling across my body. –SH._

_You leaning over, while I continue my job. –SH._

_Would you take me? –SH._

_Sherlock…god. –John._

_Would you take me? –SH._

_Yes, god. –John._

_Touch yourself for me, John. Now. –SH._

And John's hands that night had travelled to his cock, hard as a rock as soon as Sherlock had written 'naked', had grabbed it and had started to stroke it slowly, languidly, then harder, fiercely.

_Friday 15__th__ April, 00.34_

_Come for me, John. –SH._

And he had come. Hard. Vision gone white in less than a second, his whole body shaking, his back arched, the image of Sherlock naked under him in his mind. He had never had such a powerful orgasm before and it had been only a wank. God.

_Friday 15__th__ April, 00.39_

_Had fun? –SH._

_You're mad. –John._

_It's your fault. –SH._

_You made me this way. I can barely recognise myself. –SH._

_Idiot. –John._

_Impossible idiot. –John._

_And I love you. –John._

_I love you too. –SH._

_I'm impossibly in love with you. That's why I'm impossible. –SH._

_You nuts. –John._

_Sweet dreams. –SH._

_They will surely be. –John._

On his armchair, on that Friday afternoon one week later, John had to resist the urge to have a second wank, hard at the mere rereading of those texts. They hadn't had sex yet after that. Sherlock had been the usual Sherlock in his messages and John hadn't touched the topic anymore.

He tried to focus on his actual problem. One month had passed since they had been dating and he wanted to take Sherlock out. He didn't want to go to Angelo's and was looking for romantic restaurants. He wanted it to be special. Their special day. He had even bought new clothes for that.

In the end he had decided for Clos Maggiore and he was about to call to book a table for that evening, when his mobile buzzed in his hand.

_John! Emergency! –SH._

John looked at the screen. It wasn't the first time in their relationship that he had texted 'emergency'. They had all resulted either in Mycroft in his flat for more than thirty minutes or the lack of milk in the fridge.

He was about to give a sassy answer, when he saw an incoming call. _Sherlock_. And Sherlock never called.

"John! Emergency! Come, please!"

"Coming!"

He said, already running down the stairs.


	30. Misbehaving

**AN: it's been a while since I last wrote an author's note! So here it is! I want to thank you all my lovely follower (old and new) who are enjoying this story as much as I've enjoyed writing it down! Your support is highly regarded and invaluable at most! To all who have left a comment, I thank you all from the deepest depth of my heart, because your comment were all encouraging and lovely! I'd wish I could thank you all personally and give you a hug, but distances prevent me from doing that...so...a virtual hug to you all!**

**A further note: there are still three chapters to go, then this story will see its end. As always, I'm quite sad that it's coming to an end, it feels like losing a part of me and a part of you readers too! Anyway I can't say I haven't enjoyed the trip so far ;) Thank you again!**

* * *

John arrived at 221B twenty minutes later and now was ringing the doorbell harshly. Seconds later Mrs. Hudson appeared at the door with a concerned face.

"John! Luckily you're here!", she said.

"What has happened?", asked John, more than worried in that moment.

"I don't know. It's the fourth time I hear him scream!"

"Oh, god.", replied John, already climbing upstairs.

As always, the door was open. Sherlock never locked it up. He said that it was unnecessary since the front door was locked. John opened it with a bang and a puff of white clouds coming from the kitchen welcomed him. It was surely a strange sight to look at. Small particles of white travelled across the room, lit by the light that was coming through the windows. They danced in the sunlight like small diamonds for a while before falling on the furniture and on the floor. John had to shook his head to understand he was not in a fairy-tale but inside Sherlock's flat.

"Sherlock!", he shouted "What the hell is happening?"

"John!", came the cry from the kitchen.

John ran to Sherlock, only to find him with protective goggles on and completely covered in the white substance that was already floating in the air. For a second John wondered if it were cocaine or some other drug, but it totally didn't look like it. It looked like…flour.

"John!", Sherlock repeated as John appeared on the kitchen's threshold "The flour hates me!"

And Sherlock pointed at three packets of flour completely ripped open and melancholically lying on kitchen shelves. Flour was actually everywhere in the small room. There was flour on the hob, flour on the fridge, flour on the floor, flour on the table, flour in the basin. Especially, there was flour on Sherlock. His blue dressing gown was spotted with white, his hands, already pale, where white as marble, his black hair was of an interesting silvery colour. It took John five seconds to understand that there was no emergency and two more seconds to find the whole sight incredibly funny. He began to laugh uncontrollably.

"What are you laughing at?", asked Sherlock more than seriously "It's a disaster, John!"

John tried to conceive a slightly coherent answer amid the giggles and the chuckles.

"Sherlock, what…", he stopped to take breath "…the hell are you doing with this?"

And he started to laugh again as soon as Sherlock gave him a perplexed look.

"I'm serious, John. This is a tragedy. The flour misbehaves."

"Sherlock, the flour doesn't misbehave. It's an unanimated object. It can't misbehave!"

"I'm telling you it does!"

John tried desperately to not laugh harder and louder. He had to breathe three or four times to regain his composure. When he finally managed to stop sniggering, he spoke to Sherlock.

"Seriously, Sherlock, what are you doing with all this flour?"

"It's a…well, was a _thing_.", he replied.

"A 'thing' isn't a very helpful word.", John grinned, still trying to hold back a giggle.

"It's a thing that has gone wrong.", remarked Sherlock.

"An experiment?"

It wasn't the first time in the last month that John had come to Sherlock's flat to help him with the exercises for his arm and had found him leaning on a microscope doing every sort of experiments. Once he had even been afraid to ask what Sherlock was doing, since it had totally looked like he was dissecting a human liver. He hadn't really wanted to know.

"Sort of.", answered Sherlock.

"What kind of experiment involves flour?"

"John, your mind is rather vacant sometimes.", the young man furrowed.

"Oh, insults. I came here to be insulted. Nice.", he tried to maintain a serious face, but found himself smirking.

"What day is it today?", Sherlock questioned.

"It's 22th April. Friday.", John replied, quite puzzled.

"And…?"

"And what?"

Sherlock huffed in annoyance.

"It's one month we've been together, John!"

John gawked, mouth fallen open. He hadn't really, really expected Sherlock remembering that. He had thought that he didn't care that much.

"I thought…", he tried to mutter, mouth cotton dry "…I thought you didn't remember it…"

"Of course I do!"

John could do nothing else but close the space between them and kiss him on the lips. They tasted of flour and of Sherlock. It was odd, but it was incredibly good.

"You taste of flour.", he grinned, whispering into Sherlock's ear "Happy one month together!"

Sherlock softly smiled under the layer of flour that was covering his face.

"So,", continued John "would you tell me what you are doing here?"

The young man's cheeks turned soft pink.

"I was trying to prepare…homemade pasta.", he eventually said.

"Pasta?", John looked at him in astonishment.

"Yes, pasta. I wanted to invite you for dinner…", he explained "and I wanted to cook it by myself, but the flour hates me and doesn't cooperate…"

"Wait. Have you just said that you were cooking for me?"

"Exactly what I've said. Try to catch up with me sometimes, John."

"I just…need to regain consciousness."

"Why? Have I done something wrong? Isn't this what people in love do for their other halves?"

John stared at Sherlock with the most astonished, amazed, bewildered gaze ever. For one second he had to process the sentence the young man had just pronounced, then all John could do again was kissing him one more time, harder and passionately. Sherlock didn't quite expected it and stood still for some seconds, before abandoning himself into the kiss. Lips and tongues clashed, sucked, twisted with each other. A pleasure's moan escaped Sherlock's throat and John moved to Sherlock's neck, kissing it slowly and languidly. It still tasted of flour, but John thought it tasted of love. Sherlock dropped his head back and leaned on the kitchen table, gripping its side to keep himself upright. John buried his hands into Sherlock curls and kissed him on the lips one more time, before breaking it.

"You idiot.", he said to Sherlock.

"Idiot? Why?", Sherlock asked, dazed.

"You haven't done anything wrong, you daft. This is…I don't even have the words for it."

"Really?"

John placed another swift kiss on Sherlock's lips.

"I love you. And what you were planning to do is…marvellous."

"I love you too, John."

Then his eyes turned concerned.

"But it didn't come out as I had planned. It looks like we won't have pasta tonight…", he stated, lowering his eyes.

John felt his heart breaking. The young man had tried his best and had failed. And John knew how much failing in something saddened him to no end.

"Sherlock?", John cupped the young man's face in his hands, gently stroking his cheeks "Look at me, please."

Sherlock looked up, aquamarine eyes meeting John's.

"Do you know what I think?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"I think that to make good pasta two people are needed. I think that now you need a shower. I think that I will clean the kitchen in the meanwhile. And then we will make pasta together. Ok, love? You don't need to worry this much. I'm here."

Sherlock's mouth shaped an astonished 'O'.

"Oh."

John gave him another kiss.

"Go have that shower, it looks like it has snowed on you!", he commanded, teasingly.

Sherlock said nothing, turned his back and rushed to the bathroom. John, alone in the kitchen, looked discouraged at the chaos in the kitchen, but smiled. He loved Sherlock so much. He started to clean the mess around. Fifteen minutes later the place had regained some of its previous splendour. There were still traces of white here and there, but John was abundantly satisfied with his job. Sherlock appeared three seconds later, white t-shirt and grey joggers, black curls still damp with drops of water falling down his neck. John's mouth watered at the sight.

"Something wrong?", questioned Sherlock.

"No, no. You are…", he cleared his throat "…breath-taking. You're going to be the death of me."

Sherlock furrowed in perplexity.

"I'm not wearing anything sexy.", he remarked "Quite the contrary, actually."

"Am I allowed to say that you look gorgeous in that?", smirked John.

"If you say so…"

"For once, Sherlock, will you just believe me? God, you're…I have no words to express how beautiful you are…"

Sherlock smiled and approached to John, wrapping him in his arms, lips near John's lobe.

"You're quite sexy too.", he purred in his deep, baritone voice "You know?"

John's body thrilled and shivered, Sherlock licked his earlobe.

"Very, very sexy.", he purred again against John's neck, tongue darting out to lick it.

John's blood started to pump in his veins and went down straight to his groin, which immediately responded. All the air around was sucked in and John was suddenly aware that he was going to die by lack of oxygen.

"T-the pasta…", he uttered, not sure why he had said that.

Sherlock lifted his head up from John's neck.

"Pasta? Oh, yes.", replied Sherlock with a wicked grin "We still need to make it."

"Yes, yes.", promptly answered John, red as a tomato.

"Have you ever done it?"

"Done what?"

John wasn't sure he had a brain anymore, all he could see was Sherlock a hairbreadth away from him, his tongue as he spoke, his parted lips, drops of water on his neck, down to his white shirt, making it almost transparent.

"Homemade pasta, John. Try to keep up.", snapped Sherlock moving away.

John exhaled, blood slowing down.

"No, never.", he replied.

"Good to know. Now there's two of us who don't have the faintest idea about how to do it."

"I guess you have a recipe, right?"

Sherlock picked up a piece of paper and put it in John's hands.

"Here.", he said in a huff "But it's pointless. The flour hates me."

"The flour doesn't hate you, Sherlock.", John snorted "Let me see the recipe. Two hundred grams of flour and two egg yolks. Olive oil if needed. Good. Do we have everything ready?"

"Yes.", said Sherlock, handing flour, two eggs and oil to John.

"How many packs of flour have you bought?", John gawked "Three were destroyed. This is the fourth. Any other?"

"There are other two.", Sherlock smirked wryly "I wasn't sure about my cooking skills."

John started by putting the flour in a bowl, then put the eggs in it and started to knead the mixture with his hands. Sherlock watched.

"I still don't know why it didn't work with me.", he said "And I still think that the flour hates me."

In the meanwhile, Sherlock's hand travelled to John's neck and started to trail it with his fingers. Soft touches, slow soft touches just below John's hair. John soon started it difficult to focus on the mix below. Yet he didn't want Sherlock to stop, so he said nothing. Sherlock began to trace circles and John let out a soft moan.

Abruptly Sherlock removed his hand from John's neck and John groaned in disappointment.

"Can I taste it?", the young man said.

"Sure."

And John tried to take a fork to give Sherlock a sample of it. But before he could even move, Sherlock had taken his hand and had lifted it up to his mouth, and now was sucking his fingers, eyes fixed on John. Not the usual aquamarine eyes. Pupils were dilated that much that they seemed black, lust blazing into them. A filthy moan escaped John's mouth as every finger was wrapped in the hot wetness of Sherlock's mouth. He licked each one clean, humming with pleasure and John's blood went straight to his groin once again.

"Your hands, John, your hands…", Sherlock purred and pulled John closer, chests touching "I could suck your fingers until the end of time…"

"Oh, god…", answered John, not really aware of himself.

He hadn't even had the time to understand what was happening that Sherlock had placed his hand on his groin and was tracing slow circular movements on his erection. He moaned and arched his back, hitting the shelf behind. Sherlock pinned him harder on it with his body and John whimpered in pleasure when he felt Sherlock's own erection aligning with his one.

"Sherlock…oh, god."

"Just Sherlock…", the young man purred in a grin, while biting John's neck.

Sherlock started to move, slight strokes up and down. John's cock throbbed inside his trousers and he moaned louder. Then the movement stopped. He heard a noise that he couldn't quite trace, since his head wasn't following logic thoughts at all in that precise moment. Then Sherlock wasn't before him anymore. He looked down to see that the young man was kneeling in front of him, hands on his trousers. With a swift movement he pulled them and the pants down. John gasped at the contact of his naked skin with the cool air of the flat. As he finished his operation, Sherlock looked up at John. When their eyes met, Sherlock slowly licked his swollen lips with his tongue. John swallowed and moaned at the same time. It was torture. Then he didn't feel anything else except Sherlock's mouth engulfing his erection. He grabbed the shelf behind to not fall on his shaking knees. The young man's tongue circled the tip of his cock, slowly, languidly, passionately. Every circle was concluded with a moan and a hum coming from Sherlock's throat which directly went into John's prick, making him even harder. He arched his back more, slightly spreading his legs, finally removing his hands from the shelf to pull Sherlock's hair. Sherlock hummed loud at the gesture, John pulled harder.

"Oh, god, god, god…fuck, Sherlock…", were the only intelligible words among millions of different moans coming out from John's mouth.

Sherlock took it deeper down his throat and John was completely certain he was going to pass out at the sensation. Or die. Or come only at the idea of Sherlock's mouth around his cock. The latter was the most likely to happen. But then Sherlock abruptly stopped and John felt empty. He looked down, but Sherlock was already standing up in front of him, lips swollen, eyes darting with more than lust.

"You said you would have taken me.", he said, breathing on John's mouth.

Warm, damp breath.

"W-what?", asked John incoherently.

Panting, warm breath against Sherlock's lips.

"One week ago.", Sherlock lowered his voice "You said you would have taken me."

"Y-yes.", John swallowed.

"Would you take me, now?"

"Y…es", he exhaled.

"Bed, now.", commanded Sherlock.

And he kissed John deeply, passionately, devouring the inside of John's mouth with his tongue. John managed to pull his shoes off with his feet and jump out from his pants and trousers. He gripped Sherlock's t-shirt and pulled it above the young man's head, tying Sherlock's wrists with his hands, licking Sherlock's neck with his tongue.

"I've said bed.", panted Sherlock in a moan.

As they impelled to the bedroom, clothes fell on the floor and, before even reaching the room, they were completely naked.

The sun was setting and a warm red light seeped through the curtains. Sherlock threw himself on the bed, already spreading his legs. John took some time to admire the body of his lover. The scar on his left shoulder was well visible and he leaned on Sherlock to kiss it softly. The young man answered with a soft moan. Except that, Sherlock's skin was flawless. He looked like a statue, or a god. John started to lick every single centimetre of his chest, traced the nipples with his tongue, gaining another loud moan from the young man.

"John…please…stop teasing…just…take me…please…", he panted.

"Impatient!", John answered, biting Sherlock's lower lip.

John's brain kicked in all of a sudden.

"Sherlock…ahem…have you ever…?"

The answer came immediately.

"Yes, John.", Sherlock said in a huff "Don't want to explain when, how and why at the moment though. Just…go on, please…"

Sherlock hadn't quite ended the sentence that John had already taken his erection in his own hand and had started to stroke it gently.

"This way?", he purred into Sherlock's ear.

"Stop teasing…fuck!"

Sherlock's cock twitched in John's hand.

"You like it…", John teased a little more.

"I'm going to kill you…", Sherlock moaned at a harder stroke.

"Lube? Condoms?"

"Finally!", grinned Sherlock, John speeding up his hand around Sherlock's erection "The drawer…ah…they're in the…fuck…drawer…fucking god!"

John licked Sherlock's earlobe.

"I think I found a way to shut you up…"

And he quickly moved his left hand to skim through the nightstand's drawer. He quickly put a condom on and spilt lube on his hands. He was a bit nervous. He actually knew how it worked, but theory was one thing, practice was another. He slowly pushed a finger inside Sherlock. Sherlock hissed in pleasure. He started to move it and was greeted by a twitch of Sherlock's cock.

"Fuck, John! More…"

John inserted a second finger, continuing his work, stretching him wider.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…John…oh, John…", was all John could hear coming from Sherlock.

He inserted a third finger.

"I'm fucking ready!", yelled Sherlock opening his eyes.

John placed his cock at Sherlock's entrance and very slowly pushed in.

"Gooooooood, damn good god…fuck…you're so tight, Sherlock…god…"

"John…"

After that John could only hear the sound of his thrusts inside Sherlock, his moans of pleasure, Sherlock's moans. And the world outside ceased to exist. He thrust slowly at first, then harder, then almost frantically. His orgasm built up in seconds, the sensation and the idea of what he was doing sufficient enough to bring him to the limit.

"Oh god…I think I'm…"

"Come for me, John!", answered Sherlock in a cracked voice.

John had barely the time to take Sherlock's cock in his hand once more and to stroke it simultaneously with his last thrusts. They came together, hard. John vision went blank, every sound ceased to exist and his head floated metres above his body. He collapsed on Sherlock, happy. No, happy wasn't the right word. He was above happiness. He was completely filled by love, devotion and passion. He was ecstatically happy.

He moved from Sherlock and crawled by his side. The young man was still panting, hair completely ruffled and messy on the pillow, eyes half-open under the eyelids, his whole body slightly shaking. John placed a kiss on his shoulder.

"Are you ok, love?"

Sherlock smiled the smile that was only reserved for John.

"Of course, John."

And their lips met one more time, in a soft, deep, meaningful kiss that said everything without saying a word. _I love you more than everything else_, that was it.

When they separated, John started to giggle.

"What's that? What's so funny?"

"Had you planned this?", he smiled "You know…condoms and lube in the drawer make me rather suspicious."

"Not quite.", Sherlock said "I actually meant to cook for you, then to take you to bed. But the flour misbehaved."

"The flour doesn't misbehave."

"You've repeated it at least three times, you're becoming monotonous."

"I'm still the boring professor.", John smirked.

Sherlock leaned forward and kissed John.

"And I love you.", he said.

"I love you too.", John replied.

They stayed in silence for a while, Sherlock resting his head on John's chest.

"Your heartbeat is a calming sound.", he whispered.

John hummed in response, eyes closed, savouring Sherlock's scent and warmth on him.

"John?"

"Yes?"

"What do you want from this relationship?"

John furrowed, then opened in a soft smile. He caressed Sherlock's curls.

"I want to be beside you every day of my life. I want to see you laugh, I want to make you laugh. I want to be the one you look at and think 'I feel safe'. I want to be the one who wakes you up in the morning and whispers sweet nothingness to you, I want to be the one beside you if you feel sad and I want to be the one able to drive that sadness away. I want to be the one that listens to you when you play the violin, and I want to be the one who praises your ability with a kiss. I want to be the one who takes you out on a date and see the envious faces of the other people, because I have you and they don't. I want to be the one who says 'I love you' every day of your life. All I want from this relationship is you."

John saw Sherlock's eyes veiled with tears.

"John…that was…amazingly beautiful…", he sobbed.

John placed a kiss on the young man's forehead.

"I didn't mean to make you cry."

"I'm crying of happiness, John…it feels good…", he whispered "Yours, John. I'll always be yours."

"And I will always be yours, too."

Sherlock dried his tears and made a terrorised face.

"John! The pasta!"

John laughed.

"The pasta is well gone. The mixture has probably become a piece of marble."

"But I wanted to eat that with you this evening…"

"Are you saying that you're regretting _this_?"

"Not in the slightest! Just…I wanted to eat that."

"And I wanted to invite you to Clos Maggiore to have the most romantic dinner ever. But it's too late to book. Guess that both our plans have gone to hell."

"Oh."

"Do you know what we're going to do now?"

Sherlock shook his head, tickling John's chest with his hair.

"We're going to have a shower. Together or separately, as you wish..."

"Together!", quickly answered Sherlock.

John smiled.

"Then we're going to get dressed and then we're going out to eat. How does it sound to you?"

"Angelo's?", asked Sherlock.

"Does it exist another place?", giggled John.

And they showered, got dressed and went to Angelo's.

One hour later John was eating his last piece of a delicious chocolate cake when noticed that Sherlock was staring at him, chin resting on his hands, evidently pondering. Their eyes met.

"John?"

"Yes, Sherlock? Is anything wrong?"

"Will you marry me?"

Later in his life John couldn't deny that he had dropped his teaspoon on the table and had almost choked on his bite of chocolate cake, not counting that he had almost had the umpteenth symptom of a heart failure.

"What?", he goggled, swallowing hard.

"I've asked…"

"I heard that, Sherlock! Last time I've checked I wasn't deaf.", he said "Marriage? Are you serious?"

"I've never been more serious in my life, John."

"Oh."

"Your…words. What you have said earlier…they were meaningful, passionate, soulful…nobody has ever said something like that to me, and I'm pretty sure nobody will ever do. Except you."

John melted on the divan.

"And I've stated I'm yours. And forever will be. So…will you marry me?"

John stayed pensive for a while, thoughts spinning in his head, head so dizzy he could barely recognise where he was and what he was doing.

"Sherlock…", he exhaled.

Sherlock stiffened.

"I will marry you.", he said "But…"

"But…? But what?", panicked the young man.

"But there are other things that come first. First I need to resign, and we've already discussed that I'll do it after this academic year has concluded, as you wished. Then I'll need to look for a job and find a new flat."

"You can come to live with me, John."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm asking you to marry me and you think I'm not sure about you moving in?", Sherlock smiled.

"Ok, then. I'll move in with you. But there's one more thing. And this is my condition, Sherlock."

Sherlock furrowed, puzzled.

"I'll marry you only after your graduation. This is my only condition. We'll marry after that."

"But…"

"No 'buts'. I love you and yes, I want to marry you and spend the rest of my life with you. But I also want you to complete your studies. It's important for me. Let's say your graduation will be your nuptial gift for me, ok?"

Sherlock furrowed more and John could almost see his brain cells moving.

"So…will you marry me if I graduate?", Sherlock asked seconds later.

"Definitely yes."

Sherlock grinned.

"Well, I think it's time to pass some exams then."

John smiled.

"Sherlock Holmes, you're the most impossible, absurd person I've ever known. And, god help me, I'm madly in love with you. Will you marry me?"

"What?", Sherlock goggled, astonished.

"I'm giving you the chance to decide one condition for me.", John grinned "Whatever the condition is. Except the 'I want to marry you before the graduation'."

"A condition? You want a condition?"

"I've given you one, so you might give one to me."

"My condition is…love me, John. Please. Love me until death do us apart. That's my condition. I'll marry you if this condition is respected."

"I will. I will always love you."

"And I will gladly marry you."

They smiled, lost in each other's eyes and hearts, forever.


	31. The Big Day

It was the end of May and it was the Big Day for John.

No, actually it was the second Big Day of the week for John.

The first had been the previous day, when John had finally moved in with Sherlock. It hadn't been much hard since John hadn't really got many belongings in his old flat. The most of them were clothes and kitchen stuffs. It had required him only one travel with a rented van for the occasion. Sherlock had been on seventh heaven. John had spent the night before the move with him and he had never seen Sherlock such anxious and excited at the same time. John had tried to calm him down, not really managing to, since he was overly excited himself. The mere thought of starting a new life beside the person he loved the most, made his eyes sparkle with excitement and anticipation, his heart jittering and his mind floating.

"John, is it really happening?", had asked Sherlock as soon as John had stepped in with a suitcase full of clothes.

"I'm asking the same question. Is it real, Sherlock? Because I'm rather confused.", he smiled.

"I'm saying it's real only if you confirm it, John."

"Then it's real. I think."

"We could ask Mrs. Hudson!"

And Sherlock had called the landlady out loud. She had appeared from the door.

"What's that, boys?", she had asked.

"Mrs. Hudson.", had started Sherlock in a resolute voice "Can you see John Watson here in front of me?"

She had given a puzzled look at Sherlock.

"Of course I can. Why shouldn't I see him?"

John had fought hard to not laugh his heart out.

"So, do you confirm that you can see doctor John H. Watson in flesh and blood standing here?"

"Yes, Sherlock, but…", she had furrowed.

"Thank god!", the young man had smiled, hugging John and kissing him on the lips.

Then they had parted and looked at each other in the eyes, giggling.

"Definitely not a dream.", had grinned John.

"Definitely not." , had replied Sherlock.

"Boys.", had muttered Mrs. Hudson rolling her eyes, then giving them a big, warm smile "Sherlock, I've never seen you so happy in your life, dear. And I'm so happy for you!"

"You'd have to thank Mr. Watson for this.", had resumed the young man trying to keep a straight face "It's exclusively his fault that I've ended like…_this_."

And he had made a disgusted face, which had come out as incredibly funny instead.

"Yeah, yeah.", had mocked John "It's my fault and I claim myself guilty of this tremendous, horrible crime on behalf of love."

"I think I'm going to arrest you and lock you up in the flat. You deserve punishment for your behaviour…", Sherlock had grinned, purring into John's ear.

"What kind of punishment?", John had raised an eyebrow and had grinned wickedly.

"Boys!", had shouted Mrs. Hudson "It's not decent!"

"Who cares about 'decent'? I'm in love! Love is not 'decent'!", Sherlock had said, kissing John harder and pulling him into the flat.

Needless to say that he had brought back the van to the car rental three hours later than the expected time. And he had had to pay the fine for it. Never in his life he had been so willing to pay a fine more than that day. He remembered, while he was adjusting his necktie in front of the mirror one day later, that he had simply smiled his brightest smile when the rent assistant had said he should have paid a fine. A totally worth fine for a two hours sex marathon. He smiled once more in front of the mirror.

But definitely this was the real Big Day. The resignation day.

John was immensely nervous. It was nothing really important, but it was, and he knew that too well, the second step to future things. He had promised Sherlock he would have resigned by the end of the academic year, as Sherlock had wished, even if the young man had still tried to make him quit his decision.

Especially one day. He remembered the conversation, happened at the beginning of May, very clearly.

_"__John, you shouldn't. Really, you shouldn't."_

_"__Why shouldn't I? Seriously, it's the eighth time we're discussing about _this_."_

_"__Because you're a damn good teacher."_

_"__It's not even my proper job! And your judgemental abilities are obfuscated by your feelings."_

_"__Don't ever say that! I thought you were great even before starting _this._"_

_"__Sherlock, I can't! You'll be in the same university for one more year and I can't just fake I'm not involved with you! I can't just go around and pretend there's nothing between us!"_

_"__Neither do I! I'd just want to enter the building walking hand in hand with you, then separate for our lessons, then meet during the breaks!"_

_"__For the umpteenth time, Sherlock…this is not how it works! There are rules out there!"_

_"__I'd gladly break them all for you!"_

_"__And I don't want to ruin your university career, for the heaven's sake!"_

_"__I could withdraw…"_

_"__And I could decide to not marry you! God, Sherlock, you're so stubborn sometimes!"_

_"…__sorry…"_

_"__No, Sherlock, don't do that face…I didn't mean to yell at you…sorry, come here…"_

_"…__ok…"_

_"__It's just…I want you to graduate and I don't want to interfere with it. If there are rumours spreading…I don't want it. I want to stay with you, freely, without these problems. And I want to marry you."_

_"…__thanks…"_

_"__Love you."_

_"__Love you too, John."_

Eventually Sherlock had accepted it.

Yet, what had surprised John the most was the sudden change in Sherlock's behaviour towards university lessons and exams. Instead than lazily sitting on his chair in the front row, he had started to actively participate at the lessons, taking notes, doing the assignments. He had never missed a lesson anymore. Every teacher was stunned.

_Conversation at the canteen, as heard by John Watson, on Wednesday 11__th__ May._

_Professor Maycomb: "I can't believe it. I think it's a miracle of some sort."_

_Professor Holborn: "What's happening, Maycomb?"_

_Professor Maycomb: "Holmes. He's following my lessons! Every single damn lesson."_

_Professor Holborn: "Really? Are you serious?"_

_Professor Maycomb: "Never been more serious in my entire life."_

_Professor Donovan, sitting at the table: "What's up?"_

_Professor Holborn: "Maycomb is saying that Holmes is attending every single lesson!"_

_Professor Donovan: "I've heard. Sybil told me the other day."_

_Professor Maycomb: "So, do you think he's serious or he's planning something?"_

_Professor Donovan: "The latter."_

_Professor Maycomb: "I can't say. He seems…different. Happier."_

_Professor Donovan: "Don't make me laugh!"_

_Professor Maycomb: "We'll see, I guess."_

_Professor Donovan: "What do you think professor Watson? You two seemed to get along."_

_Professor Watson: "I don't know. That student is a mystery. I agree with Maycomb, though. He seems different. For the better."_

John had tried to kept the straightest face while saying that, the result had been satisfying. None of them had seemed to notice his cheeks turning slight pink. Nevertheless what had amazed John the most was that Sherlock was actually _studying _for his exams.

_Sunday 15__th__ May, 14.33_

_What about a stroll in the park, love? –John._

_Can't. –SH._

_Why not? –John._

_Busy. –SH._

_Don't tell me it's a case. And if it is, you can go on later with that. Park? –John._

_Can't. Busy. It's not a case. –SH._

_What's that then? –John._

_Studying. –SH._

_Exams incoming. –SH._

_Are you serious? –John._

_Does it look like I'm joking? –SH._

_Are you really studying? –John._

_Do you want me to repeat the obvious? Yes. Studying. –SH._

_Because SOMEONE has posed a condition on a certain SOMETHING. –SH._

_Oh. –John._

_Let me study. –SH._

_Oh. Ok. –John._

_Are you really doing that for me? –John._

_Let me study. –SH._

_Love you, idiot. –John._

_Sunday 15__th__ May, 14.54_

_I'll be done with this by 19.30. Dinner? –SH._

_Gladly. –John._

_Go back to your studying. –John._

_I hate you for this. –SH._

_You don't. –John._

_Right. I don't. –SH._

_I love you. Even with that stupid condition. –SH._

_Love you more knowing you're studying for me. –John._

_I'll study more, then. –SH._

_Good boy. –John._

_Don't ever say that again. –SH._

_I'm not good and I'm not a boy. –SH._

_Good boyfriend? –John._

_Future husband. –SH._

_Oh. –John._

_Back to study. –SH._

John put on the grey jacket and looked in the mirror one more time. Seven thirty. The meeting with Mike had been arranged at eight fifteen of that Monday morning. Sherlock was waiting in the living room for him to come out from the bathroom. John's heart was drumming hard in his chest and sweat was gathering just below his hair on his forehead. Sherlock and him had rehearsed the speech dozens of times. Nevertheless John was well aware that it would have been a totally different with Mike before his eyes, instead of Sherlock. Yet he also knew that what he and Sherlock had decided was the best.

_"__Why have you asked for a meeting, John?"_

_"__Sherlock, Mike doesn't speak that way. You're making him sound like a chicken."_

_"__He's a chicken."_

_"__Not really. And can we, please, go on? Stick to your voice, don't try to mimic his."_

_"__Why have you asked for a meeting, John?"_

_"__Because…"_

_"__Firmer, John. Your voice is shaking and it's so low I can barely hear you."_

_"__Ok. Ok."_

_"__Why have you asked for a meeting, John?"_

_"__Because I want to resign."_

_"__Perfect."_

_"__You should have said 'what?'."_

_"__I mean: the voice was perfect. Firm and resolute."_

_"__Go on, Sherlock. This is killing me."_

_"__You don't have to do that."_

_"__Do not restart with that already. Just…go on."_

And they had acted every possible objection that Mike would have made. Everything was perfectly planned. Everything. But John was nervous mainly for a particular reason. And the reason behind the fact that he had named the day of his resignation "The Big Day" was that he and Sherlock were actually going to the meeting together. And John would have told Mike about their relationship. They had agreed on that a few days earlier in a conversation in Sherlock's flat.

_"__John?"_

_"__Yes?"_

_"__What do you think about moving in with me on Sunday?"_

_"__You mean the day before my meeting with Mike?"_

_"__Yes."_

_"__I guess this should be the part where one says 'I have to think about it', right?"_

_"__Do you have to think about it?"_

_"__No."_

_"__And the answer to my question is 'yes' or 'no', John?"_

_"__Yes. I will move in with you on Sunday."_

They had kissed. Then there had been silence.

While slowly fixing his hair, John smiled as the next piece of conversation came to his mind.

_"__Sherlock…?"_

_"__Yes?"_

_"__What about…ahem…making our relationship official?"_

_"__Isn't it already official? Mrs. Hudson knows, Lestrade knows, my brother _surely_ knows, even if I didn't say a word to him."_

_"__Well, I guess it wasn't that hard to deduce, considering I was in your flat quite a lot when he was here too."_

_"__Still it doesn't give him the right to know about my personal life!"_

_"__He's your brother, Sherlock!"_

_"__Yes, he is. And that's a disgrace."_

_"__I give up. Anyway: I meant 'official' by saying it to Mike."_

_"__What?"_

_"__I thought about it and I d prefer to not lie, Sherlock. Mike is a friend of mine and he had done a big favour to me. I can't lie to him. And I'm sure he won't say anything if I ask him not to."_

_"__What about the speech we had prepared?"_

_"__We just have to add this part to the one we had. Would you like it?"_

_"__John…"_

_"__Yes?"_

_"__Of course I would like it!"_

And so it had been arranged. John gave a last glance to the mirror and returned to the living room. Sherlock was sitting on the sofa, drinking the cup of tea John had prepared for him. Obviously he hadn't eaten more than a single, lonely biscuit. And John, since they were now living together, was planning to make him change that debatable behaviour. But his thoughts about it drifted away as he looked at Sherlock.

He was wearing a short-sleeved dark blue shirt which deeply contrasted with his pale skin and reflected in the aquamarine of his eyes, giving him a much more mysterious appearance. In the morning light his skin glowed of a bright white light and he seemed to shine in the room.

"Sherlock…", he said, mouth-watering.

"What's up, John?", the young man answered, raising his eyes to meet John's.

"You should be illegal.", John stated.

Sherlock raised more than an inquiring eyebrow.

"Why?"

"Because…you're illegally, stunningly gorgeous!"

"John, that makes no sense whatsoever.", teased Sherlock.

"It's the love speaking. Can't help.", he smiled.

"And my _love speaking _says that you look gorgeous too in that suit. It's a pity we should go…"

And Sherlock put down the empty cup of tea and moved closer to John.

"…because, right now, I'd do something else…", he purred in John's ear "…something illegal if performed in public."

John swallowed, trying to resist his body which was sending him clear messages of arousal as Sherlock gave his neck a long lick.

"Later, Sherlock.", he said in the most commanding tone he could manage in that moment.

"Yes, later.", Sherlock jumped back, grinning "Ready for the war?"

"We aren't going at war, Sherlock.", he smiled.

"Yes, we are."

"If you say so."

They exited the flat, greeted by a 'good luck, boys' by Mrs. Hudson, who knew everything because had forced John to undergo a third-degree questioning session.

The day was overly beautiful. The trees were fully blossoming with green leaves and varicoloured flowers which filled the air with the sweetest scents. Birds tweeted in their nests, hidden inside their tree shelters of leaves. The sky was of an incredible crystal clear blue and the sun, already high up, seemed to shine brighter in the vastness of that ocean-like vault. White clouds drifted in the mild wind, converging and parting in silky fibres, getting smaller and smaller until they vanished.

John breathed the fresh air around and kissed Sherlock before they got into the taxi.

"John, I'm sorry that you have to resign.", said the young man as he sat in the cab.

"Sherlock. We've talked about it…seriously, I don't even remember how many times.", he huffed.

"I'm sorry anyway."

John kissed him one more time, gaining an odd look from the cabby.

"I want it, Sherlock. I want it for us. And, as I've already told you, it won't be hard to find a proper job. So stop worrying. Seriously."

Sherlock answered with a swift kiss, gaining the second odd look from the cabby. The young man huffed in annoyance.

"Is there something that bothers your low I.Q.?", Sherlock asked to the man.

"No, sir."

"Because you seem pretty bothered by me and John kissing."

"I am not, sir."

"Liar. Don't ever lie to me."

"Sherlock…", stepped in John "Just…let it go."

"He's stupid!"

"Sherlock…just…please…not now.", pleaded John "Not this morning."

"Sorry, John.", Sherlock lowered his eyes.

John smiled and kissed Sherlock one more time.

"Let him think what he wants.", he whispered in Sherlock's ear "I love you and he's just stupid. I just don't want you in a court by tomorrow."

Sherlock replied with a grin.

"I love you too.", he whispered.

They arrived at university at eight o'clock. The department was almost empty since the lessons had ended the previous Friday. John had done his last lesson and now he had only to face the exam session. Nevertheless he wanted to communicate his will to leave his job as soon as the exams would have been concluded with some anticipation, so that Mike could start to look for a substitute. Sherlock had told John that he would have not sat the organic chemistry exam for obvious reasons. But he would have sat other three exams and John was extremely proud of him. Mostly because he was sure that Sherlock would have passed them all and that meant that their wedding was somehow approaching. Butterflies started to dance in his stomach at the thought.

They walked to Mike's office. Sherlock had decided to wait outside until Mike had asked John the reasons of his resignation. Then John would have called Sherlock in. Every step that John took, he became more and more nervous.

Eight fifteen arrived and Mike's secretary called him.

"Don't worry, John. You'll do great.", smiled Sherlock.

He walked the last steps to Mike's office in a state of trance. That was it. From now on there was no possible turning back. And, god, he wanted to follow that way more than anything else. Because that path he had chosen meant Sherlock. And Sherlock was all that counted.

"John, good morning!", the chubby face of Mike greeted him "It's been a long time since we last saw!"

"We've both been busy with the school.", smirked John.

"Yes, very busy. I didn't expect that being vice-chancellor would have given me lesser and lesser time."

"You're doing a great job."

"I'm trying to, at least.", Mike smiled "But, back to you, why have you asked for a meeting?"

"The reason is…"

Damn, he should have said 'because'. Oh, whatever. He went on.

"…I wanted to resign."

"What? Why?", asked Mike, giving him a more than perplexed look "The students literally adore you! I've received lot of praises about your wonderful job!"

"I…", he cleared his throat "am very grateful for that, but my decision is irrevocable."

"Why, John? Is something wrong? Harriet again?"

"No, Mike. Nothing is wrong. Actually, quite the contrary."

Mike goggled.

"What do you mean?"

"This should have been be the part where I would have told you that I found a new job.", John started "But that would've been a lie. At the moment I haven't got any job except this, but I'm already working on it to find a suitable one. But the reason for which I'm resigning is a different one."

"You're being mysterious, John."

"Mike, I…", he took a deep breath "…have fallen in love."

"And you're going to resign because you've fallen in love?", Mike asked, astonished.

"I've not just fallen in love, Mike. I've fallen in love with the most brilliant human being on this Earth.", he smiled.

"Still, it doesn't make sense. Doesn't she want you to work here? Because it would be pretty arrogant of her."

"No, no. The person I'm talking about is outside and didn't even want me to resign. And is a 'he'."

"A 'he'? Well, I didn't expect it, but I see no problem in that. There are other gay male teachers here if you are worried about that."

"Can I call him in?", asked John.

"If it helps me understand what you're blabbering about, I'm more than positive about calling him in."

John turned away to the door and went straight to the corridor, Sherlock stood up from the chair and followed in.

"Holmes?", was the more than shocked question coming from Mike "What are you doing here?"

"Morning, vice-chancellor Stamford.", Sherlock smiled.

"He's here, Mike, because he's the person I've fallen in love with. I could have told you a pitiful lie about me not wanting to teach anymore, I've decided for the truth. I'm in love with him and I can't pursue a career as a professor while I'm _actually_ living with him. It won't do any good to the university, but mainly it won't do any good to him.", John said, holding Sherlock's hand.

"So you have decided to leave?"

"Yes. I will do the exams, then my resignation will be effective. Sherlock won't do his exams with me around, if that worries you."

Mike stared at John agape.

"John, I really don't know what to say…I'm speechless. I didn't expect…"

John held Sherlock's hand stronger.

"Mike, if months ago you had told me that something like this was going to happen, I would have laughed to no end. I would have said you were crazy. But it happened. And I'm the happiest man on Earth for this."

He saw Sherlock's cheek turning pink.

"Well, John, I understand your point of view and I fully accept it. I'm really sorry to lose such a good teacher, it saddens me, but I accept your resignation. It will be effective from the last week of June after the exams."

"Thank you, Mike. I knew you would have understood."

Mike smiled, then turned to Sherlock.

"Mr. Holmes, can you please give us two minutes alone?"

Sherlock and John furrowed.

"Don't worry.", Mike smiled "I've only got to say something to John."

Sherlock unwillingly left the room, John looked at Mike more than puzzled.

"Whatever it is, Mike, you could have said it in front of him. We're together. Unless you want to insult him or persuade me it's madness. Because in that case I assure you it won't end well."

"Don't fend, John! It's nothing like that. Actually I congratulate with you.", he smirked "It looks like your company is doing good to him. All the other professors were wondering about what had happened to him."

"So, what did you need me for?"

"You said that you are going to start looking for a job, right?", asked Mike.

"Yes, I did. But…"

"I didn't know if you would have felt embarrassed in front of him if I gave you this."

And he handed John a card with a number.

"It's a friend of mine. He's looking for a doctor to work in a small clinic. Nothing big, but good enough."

John looked at Mike.

"Now I am the one who's speechless, Mike. You're saving me a second time!", he cried out.

"You saved a whole academic year, John. Don't forget that. And, even if I shouldn't put my nose into it, I think you've just saved Sherlock Holmes too. That's what I wanted to say without him hearing."

John opened in his brightest smile.

"Maybe he saved me too. I don't know.", he said.

Mike smirked and stretched his hand to shake John's.

"Thank you, John. And be happy!"

"Thank you too, Mike. And I will surely be!"

And John stepped out of the room, joining Sherlock and telling him about what Mike had just said. He didn't want to be secrets between the two of them. And they walked away, smiling.

But John didn't hear Mike's call some minutes later.

_"__Any news?"_

"Yes, it went as you had imagined."

_"__Has he suspected anything?"_

"Not at all."

_"__Good. Thank you for your collaboration, Mr. Stamford."_

"You're welcome, Mr. Holmes."


	32. A Whole New Vocabulary

It was a hot day of middle July and John's resignations had just been officialised. Now he was a professor no more and he had already had the interview with Doctor Parker for the new job. The aforementioned, a blonde middle-aged man with dark penetrative eyes, had been more than happy to hire John, since his qualifications were exceeding his expectations. John would have started to work in September, after the August closure of the place.

Sherlock, to John's happiness, had sat all the three exams he had planned to do and had passed them with the highest marks (not that John had really doubted that). And now he was already preparing for the next ones. One could surely not have said that Sherlock wasn't putting all his efforts in that: the flat was literally full of books about every single subject he was going to have an exam about. Once, coming back from the shopping, John had found Sherlock amid four open books that weren't even considered in the modules for the exam.

"Sherlock!", he had said, fighting back the urge to laugh "You're reading unnecessary books!"

"Unnecessary?", Sherlock had raised an eyebrow.

"Yes. The module doesn't consider this, not in the slightest."

"But what if professor Maycomb asks it?"

"He won't."

"What if, John? What if I don't pass the exam because of this?"

"Are you serious about that?", had furrowed John.

"More than serious. I want to avoid failure."

"Oh, god. You won't fail. You're Sherlock! You're the cleverest man I've ever met!"

"You say so, but the others don't. I'm still a 'freak'."

"Whoever says that to you will suffer. I promise.", John had threatened.

He loathed the fact that there were still people out there who considered Sherlock a 'freak'.

"Still, I want to avoid every single opportunity that Maycomb could have to flunk me. It would mean one exams to prepare all over again. It would mean that we will marry later! And I don't want this to happen!"

John had placed a kiss on Sherlock's forehead.

"Ok then, love."

That conversation had happened three days before. Now John was in the same flat quarrelling about the same thing. It was ten o' clock, outside there were 25 degrees and the sun was shining up in the sky. They had just had breakfast and Sherlock hadn't looked away from his books for one second.

"Sherlock, you've been reading those texts for one week now. And you've been on them since five this morning! Stop, seriously!", John snorted.

"Can't, John. Don't you remember your _bloody_ condition?"

"I do.", John sighed "But you really don't need to study 24/24!"

"I am just trying to…"

"…avoid possible failure! Yes, I _fucking bloody _know that, Sherlock! But it's July, you've got the greatest brain I've ever known and you aren't going to _fucking_ fail whatever exam you're going to take!"

Sherlock lifted his head up to finally look at John in the eyes.

"I don't understand. You said that you wanted me to graduate…"

"For the heaven's sake, yes, I said that! And I've almost reached the point of eating those damn words back weren't it for the fact that I actually _want_ you to graduate! But you can't spend all your time studying! You barely keep your eyes off books!", John grunted.

Sherlock's eyes showed a glimpse of sadness and vulnerability.

"Are you angry with me, John?"

John approached to Sherlock and hugged him from behind, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's shoulders and resting his head on them.

"No, Sherlock.", he whispered, kissing Sherlock's shoulder "I'm not angry with you. I know you're doing all this for us, but it's July and I want to spend my time with you. I want us to go to the park, walk together, eat at the restaurant…even go to the cinema! I don't want you to sit there all the summer…I want to spend it with you…"

Sherlock turned his head to meet John's lips and raised his hands to cup John's head. The kiss was slow, soft and tender and John lost himself into it. He had learnt in almost two months of living together that Sherlock could be quite romantic and sentimental, but other times he returned frigid and distant, only to apologise one day later with a mortified face. In those days John had to reassure him that everything was fine and that he loved him nevertheless. Sometimes it wasn't an easy task to live with him, but John was really up for a challenge. He spent every day showing Sherlock how wonderful he was, because he had eventually understood that what Sherlock feared the most was to be left alone, to be considered an unworthy person. And John couldn't accept it. Yet the cohabitation was getting better and better and Sherlock was slowly learning to understand and to go along with his sentiments. 'Thanks to you, John.', he had said once, tenderly.

When they separated from the kiss, Sherlock was smiling.

"I think I'll take a break from these books.", he said.

"I think it's a very good decision. And I think we're going to Regent's Park. You need to get some sunshine too, you're so pale!"

"You love my paleness!", remarked Sherlock in a grin.

"Oh, yes, I do.", answered John, sinking his head into Sherlock's neck to kiss it.

Sherlock let out a moan and pulled John closer, as though he wanted to make him a part of his body, as though he wanted the two bodies to merge in a single one. John purred at the touch of Sherlock's fingers on his nape, shivers down his spine. John softly bit Sherlock on his neck tendon, gaining another moan from his mouth, then started to place soft kisses on it.

"Regent's…", he purred amid the kisses "…Park. We'll…"

Kiss.

"…do…"

Kiss.

"…this…"

Kiss.

"…after."

Lick.

Sherlock whined at the sudden loss of John's lips.

"After?", he raised an eyebrow.

"Yes.", smiled John "After I've taken you out to Regent's Park, after I've walked with you the whole afternoon, holding hands and making you laugh, after I've passed some time kissing you senseless on a bench, after I've invited you out for dinner at Angelo's. After. It's been ages since we had a proper date…"

And it was the truth. Since John moved in, the dates out had disappeared. Mostly because they were too happy to be in the same house together to mind, but now John was feeling the need to show to the entire planet how much they were in love.

Sherlock nodded and smirked wickedly.

"I think I like this 'after'."

"You'd better do.", teased John.

"So? Regent's?"

"Let's get dressed.", smiled John one more time.

They went out thirty minutes later, aimed to Regent's Park. They both loved it not because it was literally one minute's walk away from the flat, but because of its quietness despite the great mass of people that strolled into it. Sherlock had once remarked that Regent's was the quietest park in London because of the flowers. John hadn't quite understood what that meant, but had agreed with a nod.

It was a very wonderful day to walk through it. The roses of Queen Mary's garden were blooming in all their brightness. Red, white, pale pink, yellow, peach orange, the red-green of the leaves and of the thorns: a kaleidoscopic mix of colours intertwined in the crystal clear light of July A light, soft breeze caressed the tip of roses' petals making them tremble slightly, drops of dew falling down now and then on the ground, a drizzle of water on the grass's mantle.

Sherlock and John slowly walked through them, stopping here and there do admire this or that variety, holding hands and smiling like two schoolboys in love. John didn't mind at all.

They moved to the Boating Lake and stopped over Longbridge, both leaning their forearms on the banister, observing the quiet, tranquil waves of the water below. The bright blue sky mirrored in the water and small clouds seemed to swim just over the surface, now and then destroyed by the touch of swans that landed on it, creating concentric circles that became wider and wider, thinner and thinner until they disappeared, swallowed by the lake.

Sherlock was fixing them, absorbed in that contemplation, and John was fixing him, quite lost in the blue of his eyes and in the white of his skin.

"I was thinking…", said Sherlock, suddenly breaking the silence "…that I've never appreciated London this much."

"What do you mean?", asked John, coming back to Earth.

"I mean that I liked London before. I liked the city and its noise and everything it has to offer. But now, with you it takes a whole new meaning. Now it's not just London, it's London with you. And it gets a thousand times better. You make this city better, John. You make _me_, as a part of the city, better."

John stared at Sherlock, speechless and unable to form a coherent thought for some second. That had probably been the best compliment, even if a bit odd, that he had ever received in his whole life, let alone by Sherlock himself. He leaned forward and placed a sweet, tender kiss on Sherlock's lips.

"Sherlock…that was…amazing.", he said swallowing, a small tear of joy at the corner of his eye.

"It's the truth, John. I've never felt this way. It's like being born anew and it's…wonderful."

They looked at each other in the eyes for a while, unable to turn away. John smiled brighter and brighter. Sherlock made an amused face.

"What's that?", he asked.

"I think we should go on holiday."

"Aren't we already on holiday?"

"Sherlock, for a genius you're quite obtuse sometimes."

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, but John went on.

"I mean…somewhere, far from London. Me and you. A holiday. A proper one."

Sherlock furrowed, as if he was thinking about the meaning of the word 'holiday', then set to speak.

"A proper holiday, mmm?"

"Yes, a proper holiday."

"What about Scilly Isles?"

John gawked, astonished.

"Scilly? Aren't they a bit…ahem…I mean, it would be wonderful but…"

"But?", Sherlock urged.

"Well, I didn't think they were your style."

"You're right. But it's yours."

John nodded. Yes, he loved the scenery. He had been there once when he was studying at the university with some friends and he loved them.

"And I happen to own a cottage there."

"What?", John goggled, incredulous.

"Well, it's an inheritance and I share it with my brother, but I guess it would not bother him if we'll go there for a week in August."

"Sherlock…that would be…I have no words…"

"John, I'm sure your vocabulary isn't _that_ poor.", smirked Sherlock wryly.

"Brilliant, amazing, fantastic, magnificent, marvellous, astonishing, stunning, great, wonderful. Enough?", he smirked back.

"Enough.", Sherlock smiled before leaning forward and kissing John one more time.

In the first week of August they arrived on St. Mary by plane. They arrived at dusk and the sight below as they landed was magnificent. The turquoise water was softly lit by the reddish light of the sun disappearing in the horizon, making it glitter of a vivid lilac colour, the sand and the rocks spotted with shadows blazed like flames amid the green of the fields. John's heart filled with joy and happiness. He was in heaven.

He couldn't still believe that he was going to spend one week holiday in that paradise with Sherlock. He blinked for a while facing the sun as if he wanted to be sure that he wasn't dreaming. They had to spend the night in a small inn in St. Mary, since Sherlock's cottage was on Bryher and the ferries to the other isles of the archipelago worked only until six p.m. and it was already eight. They spent the evening eating in a lovely seafood restaurant and then wandering around the village, welcomed by the scent of the evening sea breeze.

The next day they took the ferry to Bryher and arrived at Sherlock's cottage at 10 a.m.. John found the place stunning.

The cottage was at the end of a road which gave direct access to the sea. It was made of grey stones which were mostly vine-covered with green ivy, the windows showed white cotton curtains and the door was painted of a soft blue. Around the house there was a small garden with lavender flowers filling the air with their scent, a bohemian table under an iron patio with lanterns suspended over it and a palm tree swinging its leaves in the wind. Mainly: there was a white beach and crystal clear sea just ten metres away from it. And John had really no words to express how dream-alike that place was. It seemed to have directly sprung up from a fairy-tale. He stared at it in complete amazement.

"Do you like it?", asked Sherlock unlocking the front door.

As usual, John didn't answer, but grabbed Sherlock's waist, making him turn, and kissed him. It was a sufficient answer.

The interior was decorated in pastel colours, armchairs, sofas were of a pale greyish-white and the furniture was made of sessile oak. There was a big fireplace in the living room and the air smelt of sweet vanilla and of sea. Never in his life John would have thought that someday he would have eventually come to like the scent of vanilla. The ground floor had also a rather big country-furnished kitchen, with pale white cupboards and black marble shelves, and a dining room with a big French-window facing partly the garden, partly the sea. It had a big wooden table with wooden chairs and three lanterns over it.

Upstairs there were three bedrooms and a bathroom. The biggest bedroom, the double bed one, faced west and the sea. It had parquet and two white wool rugs and a big bed with a snowy duvet on it.

John blinked once again.

"Are you sure I'm not dreaming?", he said to Sherlock, while opening his bag.

"Quite sure of it.", the young man smiled.

"And you said you didn't like this place! How can you say something like that? It's a dream!"

"Maybe…", Sherlock grinned, leaning forward to reach John's ear "…I hadn't got the right company."

"Maybe.", laughed John at the tickle of Sherlock's breath on his ear.

They spent their day on the beach, having found a parasol and two beach chairs in the garden's closet.

At three in the afternoon, John was standing only with boxer shorts on the foreshore, water caressing his bare feet, inhaling the fresh marine breeze. Sherlock, instead, was under the parasol with creamy shorts and a white-linen short-sleeved shirt, reading a book on the chair. John turned to him.

"Sherlock! Stop reading for a while and come here!", he shouted.

"I don't like water!", he answered, not glancing up from the book.

John smiled wickedly and cupped his hands, taking a handful of sea water. Oh, he was so going to make Sherlock hate the water more. He ran to him and threw it on a completely unaware Sherlock. Sherlock's eyes darted with mischief.

"John…you're _so_ going to regret it!"

And he sprang from the chair, dropping the book on the sand and throwing himself onto John. They battled for a while, rolling on the beach.

"I told you that I hate water!", growled Sherlock.

"I'm going to make you like it!", laughed John, managing to turn Sherlock on his back.

"Never!"

"Never say never!"

John grabbed Sherlock's shoulders fiercely and managed to make the two of them roll on the beach until they reached the water's edge. The cool waves hit John's and Sherlock's bodies, slightly damping Sherlock's hair. The black curls glittered in the sunlight like silk and John, pushing Sherlock completely in the shallow water below, kissed him deeply. Sherlock tried to keep an annoyed face, but John sensed clearly his smile before he abandoned himself into the kiss, waves rolling on them.

"I hate you.", the young man growled in a laughter, breaking the kiss to catch some breath.

"I know, I know. And you're going to hate me more and more.", John replied in a smirk, clenching his fists around Sherlock's shirt and managing to rip it open.

"It was my favourite!", Sherlock roared, hands travelling down John's spine and grabbing John's arse.

"You're my favourite!", John smiled, licking Sherlock's stomach "And you taste divinely!"

The young man grumbled with satisfaction at the touch and moved his hands back to John's face, cupping it and making their gazes meet.

"You're mad!", Sherlock said, eyes fixed into John's, glittering aquamarine in the sunlight, drops of water on the face, black hair floating freely in the sea.

That wasn't just beautiful, thought John, that was a beauty that defied any description. He leaned on Sherlock's lips and kissed him harshly, urging him to open his mouth, sliding his tongue in, devouring the salty flavour of the sea on the other man's lips. That everything tasted of heaven. And John was abruptly sure that 'heaven' rhymed with Sherlock Holmes. His whole heart, body and soul belonged to that young man under him.

"Yes,", he answered, breaking apart "I'm mad. Madly in love."

Sherlock smiled, the damp rose of his lips shining white as the sun gleamed on them.

"I love you too.", Sherlock answered, caressing John's hair tenderly "I love your way of seeing things, I love your way of smiling, I love your way of walking, I love your way of laughing. And I love the water under me because you brought me here. And I love the house I hated because there's you in it. And I love the life I didn't want to live because you're here beside me. John…I love you. I love you more than you can imagine. I belong to you fully. You complete me. And you're the most extraordinarily amazing human being I've ever known and will always be. And these things I'm saying are not even remotely near what I feel. I love you."

John stayed still for some seconds, almost unconscious of what was going on. He only heard those words dancing around his heart, engulfing it with tenderness, care, sweetness. Everything around turned out to be irrelevant. The sun, the water, the sand, the house: everything disappeared. There were only Sherlock and him, and that was all.

"Sherlock…", he eventually said, trembling a bit "that was…god…that was the most beautiful thing I've ever heard in my life."

And he caressed Sherlock's curls.

"And,", he went on "Sherlock, I'm sure I couldn't even make a speech that compares to what you've just said. But know that I love you more and more each day and that I will always be by your side, because you're my other half and I'm complete only beside you."

"John, there was no need to say that.", Sherlock huffed, but smiled "I can see every single second how much love there's in you for this insufferable git below."

"My favourite insufferable git.", and John kissed him once more.

In the evening they went to the village to eat, then went back to the house and stargazed for hours sitting on the beach.

The following days went on pretty much the same. They enjoyed small walks around the island, they spent the afternoons on the beach, sometimes bathing, they ate fresh bread with butter in the mornings, they admired the sunset, they ate in the patio, they lit the fireplace one evening when it rained, they made love for a whole night, they joked, they laughed, they melted into each other's soul. That communion of souls that John had wanted when he had heard Sherlock playing the violin for the first time, had, during that week, become the truth.

During their last night on Bryher, they set up a bonfire on the small beach and they sat around it.

"Happiness.", had muttered John at some point.

"What?", Sherlock raised an inquiring eyebrow.

"I'm sure that, from now on, if someone asks me what 'happiness' means, I'll describe this place."

Sherlock smiled in the flickering orange light of the fire.

"But…", John continued "if one asks me what 'heaven' is, I'll describe you."

Sherlock goggled, stunned.

"I think that the word 'hell' would better fit that description.", he grinned.

"And I think that you need an overhaul of your vocabulary.", John smirked.

"I don't think so. My vocabulary is perfectly fine as it is, because the definition of 'heaven' describes you."

John smiled brighter, but teased:

"Then you should see my definition of 'perfection'. It says 'Sherlock Holmes'."

"My favourite one is the definition of love.", Sherlock smiled.

And he grabbed John's shirt on the back, making him fall on the sand. He leaned on him.

"There's written 'John Watson' on it."

And they kissed their thousandth kiss of a million thousand kisses yet to come.

* * *

**AN: **

The long part about Scilly Isles.  
I have fallen in love with them since I saw/read an article about them in an Italian magazine, so much that I ordered the guide they offer for free from their site. They are spectacularly beautiful and I wish to go there one day!

So, I'm going to advertise them a bit: The Isles of Scilly (really, take a look and don't tell me they aren't astonishing!)

By the way: thank you for reading this chapter. Only one more chapter to go. *feels rather sad*


	33. And Then I Met Sherlock Holmes

_London, 17__th__ July._

_Two years ago I had a psychotherapist who told me that I should have written a diary, because it would have helped me to get past the trauma of having been shot in Afghanistan. She said that I should have written down everything that happened to me. Back then, nothing happened to me. Back from Afghanistan I had nothing: not a proper house where to live, not a wife anymore, not a single friend worth mentioning, not a job. I was broken._

_One day in June, I'm sorry but I can't exactly recall the date, I met an old friend in a park who offered me to teach organic chemistry at the university where he had just been appointed vice-chancellor. I refused, because I was sure I wasn't the right man for that job. I'm a doctor, not a chemistry graduated. But Mike, that's the name of my friend, insisted. I still don't know why in the end I accepted or how Mike had been able to persuade the faculty to hire me. It remains a mystery I'm not really sure I want to solve. Anyway, I happened to become Professor John H. Watson. _

_It wasn't a big change, I thought that the job would have been boring and that I would have been tired of it in a very short time._

_But then I met Sherlock Holmes and my life changed. _

_Sherlock Holmes was an insolent student, who had no respect for my job as a professor and no respect for me as a human being. He was egocentric, arrogant, disrespectful and insufferable, and I was certain that it wouldn't have come anything good from that young man. _

_And in five days I'm going to marry him. _

_Yes, I'm going to marry that insufferable, arrogant, brilliant, gorgeous man I'm totally in love with._

_How this happened, I can't quite remember. To me it looks like I've been in love with him since the day I was born and if I try to remember how love was before him, I'm sure I've never fallen in love with someone else in my entire life._

_I have been married once, before Sherlock. Her name was Janine. I loved her, or so I thought. Yet, if I look back, I can't see _this_ kind of love. I can't see the need of having her beside me for the rest of my life, I can't see me struggling because she's breath-taking, I can't see myself loving her. That's it. _

_I thought that I loved her. I'm pretty sure I didn't love anyone except Sherlock._

"What are you doing, John?"

"Writing."

"Writing what?"

"A diary."

"What for? Have you the vain desire of becoming a writer? If that's so I ought to tell you your writing isn't compelling."

"You're always you, aren't you?"

"Of course I'm always me. I don't change overnight."

"Love you, insufferable."

"I know that. You're marrying me."

_I got interrupted by my soon-to-be husband, who, I daresay, hasn't changed in the slightest in his egocentric, arrogant manners. No, I would be lying if I said that. Sherlock is the same, obviously, one can't completely change. Nevertheless, when I met him for the first time, he was icy cold and he tended to hide his emotions under an iron curtain of apparent indifference. Sentiments, feelings: he seemed to have none. Moreover, he seemed unhappy. _

_Now he has learnt to live with them, to show them, to not fear them anymore. He says that it's my fault when he wants to tease me, but when he's in the mood he just says 'thank you'. And I'm sure he means it wholeheartedly. Weren't it the case, we probably wouldn't get married in five days. _

"John!"

"What's that, now?"

"It's four-thirty. We need to go the tailor at five! Hurry up!"

_I have to stop writing. Sherlock has just remembered me that we should be by the tailor by five o' clock and I don't want to be late._

_John Watson._

"Coming, love!"

"You'd better do."

_As always, John Watson is extremely inaccurate in his writing. He has left out most of the story of how we met, of how he fell in love with me, of how we are going to get married. I'll scold him later for that._

_By the way, I think that I should mention that my name is Sherlock Holmes and, apparently, I'm the man who's going to marry him. _

_I've taken this diary while he's out doing some shopping to see what he was writing on it and I thought that dropping a word on it wouldn't have hurt anyone, especially because I'm going to be more accurate in describing how we have met, since he has skipped almost everything, writing only about the sentimental part of our journey together. John has yet to learn that sentiment obfuscates his reasoning._

_Two years ago, it was a dull mid-September morning, I was running through a park chasing a criminal, followed by the DI Lestrade and a man holding his umbrella was in the way. I stumbled upon him and was about to kill him because he was preventing me from reaching that thief (for future references, I caught him in the end). _

_Then I had to go to the boring, dull, tedious university. It had been my brother, Mycroft, who had forced me to go there. I was ready to face another useless and pointless lesson with _the new_ organic chemistry professor. I couldn't be bothered. The professor happened to be the same man I had stumbled upon that morning and he had a name: John H. Watson. And he was evidently a doctor back from Afghanistan three months earlier with a psychosomatic limp and a wounded left shoulder, not an organic chemistry professor. _

_His lesson was as boring as I had thought and I found that it was more interesting to sleep instead than following his monotonous professor's voice. But the man John Watson, I have to admit, was far more interesting than the professor John Watson. I still don't know what happened back then. John has aforementioned that I wasn't any good with sentimental stuff and he's rather correct in that, for this specific reason I have probably misread my interest in him that September. _

_It was for unknown reasons that I wanted him to come with me to a crime scene. I had never done that before him. It was for unknown reasons that I felt broken when he told me that he didn't enjoy what we had just done, although I was completely sure that he did. It was for unknown reasons that I wanted to see him two weeks after. It was for unknown reasons that I wanted him beside me while chasing a burglar in North Harrow. It was still for unknown reasons that I found the urge to apologise to him when I did something wrong._

_Everything was for unknown reasons. Until I discovered that I loved him._

_No, that is wrong. At first I only discovered that I liked to be with him, it was only months after that, when he saved my life, when he demonstrated how much he cared for me, that my last walls crumbled and I finally decided to follow my heart, not always my brain. _

_I should hate him for this. But I can't. He has done what I had asked him to do: he has taught me how to dream. And I love him for that._

_See? Sentiment. It has already made me skip most of the story of the two of us. And it's a very interesting story. But every time I think about it, I find it hard to concentrate on details and such, because all I can see is how I loved him, and how I love him more and more, and how I will always love him. _

_And that's the reason why I'm marrying him._

"Sherlock! Is that my personal diary you're writing on?"

"Mmm…think so."

"Why the hell are you writing on my personal diary? Haven't you got the slightest idea of 'privacy'?"

"We're going to marry in five days, John. I think that privacy is well beyond that. And we have been living together for one year and two months and we've been having a rather good sexual life. So I don't know about what 'privacy' you're talking about…"

"Don't do that wicked grin, Sherlock…"

"I'm not grinning wickedly…"

"Yes, you are. And I'm going to snog that grin out of you, now."

_And I love him. Seriously, I do._

_Sherlock Holmes._

"Stop writing!"

"Stop kissing me!"

"Did you really mean that?"

"Don't you dare to stop!"

"Changeable."

"Always."

"Love you, Sherlock."

"Love you, husband."

"Soon-to-be."

"Aren't we married already?"

"I see no ring on my finger."

"Pity. Are we going to change that?"

"Think so."

_London, 18__th__ July_

_Four days to go. I don't think I will survive the anxiety and the pressure. Yesterday I said that nothing had happened to me before Sherlock, but at the moment I'm quite aware that nothing has ever happened to me before this wedding. Because it's madness. _

_I'm so happy I could just dance the whole day around the house, in the streets, shouting out loud how I love Sherlock and how everyone should envy that I'm the one who has got to marry him, not them. Because it is a privilege and an honour._

_Why is that, one may ask. And I have been asked, constantly. I have been asked about it by my sister, I have been asked about it by Lestrade, I have been asked about it even by that annoying brother Sherlock has, Mycroft. _

_It is a privilege and an honour because he's Sherlock, mainly. _

_He's the most gorgeous, intelligent, clever, brilliant, stunning man I've ever met and I'm the luckiest man on Earth to have him by my side. He has made my dull days shine bright, he has made my life a better one, he has made me understand myself more than anyone else and I'm so grateful for that._

_Even when I look at his writing just above mine on this page, my heart jitters with joy, for I know it's his writing and it's near mine and it's us. And there doesn't exist anything more beautiful than this in the whole universe. Am I too much sentimental? Sherlock would say that. But, really, I'm so happy that my mind refuses to cooperate in formulating coherent thoughts, except those where I see me and Sherlock forever happy, side by side._

"Are you still writing on that diary?"

"Yes."

"Oh, god."

"May I remember you that you've written on this too?"

"It was a moment of weakness."

"Yes, yes. 'I'm the private detective Sherlock Holmes and I'm better than the rest'."

"Of course I am."

"Aren't you too much sure of yourself?"

"Confidence is the way to survive."

"And do I love you for that?"

"Yes, you do."

"Yes, I do."

_I had to stop once more because Sherlock interrupted me. And our small chat has suddenly reminded me that there are other big changes beside the marriage. _

_First: I don't work for the clinic anymore. _

_Yes, I know I've skipped the whole story about the clinic and my job there, but it's rather unimportant. Let's just say that I've worked there until the last May. It was a very good job which has allowed me to earn a good amount of money, but then things changed. And how couldn't they?_

_In January, while Sherlock was doing another exams session (I had promised him that I would have married him only if he had graduated), he told me that he wanted to pursue his career as private detective after the graduation. I thought it was a great idea. Sherlock is marvellous at deducting and the world needs someone like him._

_So, while he was completing his graduation thesis, he also took a private detective license. _

_He, then, graduated in May with the highest marks and a praise from every single professor of the university, even that annoying Sally Donovan, who couldn't quite believe her eyes when Sherlock not only topped in every subject but prepared a thesis that would put to shame almost every chemist out there._

_Second change, which is a direct consequence of the first: I'm Sherlock's partner in his job._

_We work as a duo and I love my new job. We've already got three clients in June and I think we'll be having more and more as soon as the rumours about the 'Talented Mr. Holmes' (our first client nicknamed him that way) spread throughout the city. _

_Lestrade still asks for Sherlock's help with the cases too and he's thinking of making him an official consultant of New Scotland Yard. Sherlock isn't quite sure about how he feels, but I'm working on it to make him understand that it would be a great improvement for his private career too. I think that I've sounded convincing enough because he has started to ruminate about it._

"John! Put that pen down, Mycroft wants us in his office. Don't ask me why, because I'm pretty sure I'm going to murder him."

"You won't."

"Give me a reason why I shouldn't."

"Wedding in four days."

"Good reason."

"Thought so."

_Big Brother Mycroft has summoned us. We have got to go._

_John Watson._

_I see John has written more on this 'thing'._

_And I also see that he has been inaccurate one more time. He's surely not the luckiest man on Earth. Hey! Who else would say that he's lucky to have me? I'm arrogant, selfish, egocentric, moody. _

_Yes, I might be clever and brilliant, but it's not enough to make me a good person. Therefore John is completely incorrect when he says he's lucky to have me, for I can't think about a biggest misfortune than that. _

_Moreover he can't be the luckiest man on Earth, because I'm the luckiest man on Earth to have him by my side._

_I try to demonstrate that to him every day, although I know I'm not really capable of that. He should deserve more than this mass of black curls and skinny bones who badmouth everyone around him in a one hundred metres radius. What have I done to deserve such a lovely person?_

_John has suffered my everything: from the days where I don't speak to the days I speak too much. He has suffered my rejection when I thought that I wasn't the right person for him (and I do still think that, despite the fact that we're going to marry), he has seen the worst of me and still wants to be with me. I think he's mad. Insanely mad. Or a saint. Saint John Watson. It sounds rather correct, doesn't it?_

_I'm the luckiest man on Earth because when he smiles the world becomes a better place, I'm the luckiest man on Earth because when he kisses me my heart goes in heaven, I'm the luckiest man on Earth because when he holds me in my arms I can see the stars, I'm the luckiest man on Earth because he's John Watson and there's no other man in this universe that can substitute him._

"Sherlock! You're writing on my diary once again!"

"Am I? I thought it was a random notebook."

"Don't do the 'what have I done, I am innocent' face, because you know that it doesn't work!"

"You're smiling and you don't sound threatening."

"Let me see what you have written!"

"No, don't!"

"…Sherlock…"

"Yes?"

"This is…lovely…"

"Is it?"

"No, I'm joking."

"You'd better be, because it's not lovely, it's the truth."

"Can't truth be lovely?"

"Truth is a fact. It's not lovely at all."

"I find it lovely. A lovely truth."

"Very, extremely incorrect definition."

"It's so lovely I think I'm going to marry you."

"Aren't we going to get married already?"

"That was supposed to be sweet, Sherlock."

"Oh. Right."

"Will you marry me, then?"

"I should think about it. I don't know, maybe we have to wait…"

"How much?"

"Would four days be enough?"

"Perfect."

_Yes, I'm definitely sure that nobody can substitute him. And he's mine. Can you actually believe that?_

_Sherlock Holmes._

_Don't listen to Sherlock. I'm the one who's still amazed knowing that I'm going to marry him. And I love him, love him, love him. I'll never get tired of saying that._

_John Watson._

_He will._

_Sherlock Holmes._

_Never._

_John Watson._

_St. Mary, Scilly Isles, 21__st__ July_

_One day to go. _

_You may have noticed that my actual location has changed. We're not in London anymore since yesterday, because the wedding will be officiated at St. Mary's Church. We have decided the location together. _

_The Scilly Isles are the place where we have spent a wonderful week during last year's summer and another wonderful week last January. _

_Sherlock says he hated the place before I came here with him and he also says that now he loves it because of me. Hence he was the one who has suggested St. Mary for our wedding. And I've gladly agreed. To be honest, I have more than gladly agreed. To say it in Sherlock's own words: "Stop saying 'yes, yes, yes' jumping around the flat!". _

_He'd never admit it, but he was smiling too when he did suggest this._

_How do I feel now? _

"John! What are you doing?"

"Writing."

"Again?"

"Yes. I thought it would be a sweet thing to write a diary about us. Do you like the idea?"

"I love the idea, but right now I'd love to have a walk with my...husband."

"Oh. I thought you were still scolding the catering staff."

"I've just finished."

"So you _were_ scolding the catering staff!"

"Obviously I was. They got everything wrong!"

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Really, really?"

"Mmm…no."

"Are you nervous and are you blaming people for that?"

"I'm not nervous, I'm perfectly fine!"

"Right."

"I am NOT nervous."

"And I'm the president of the USA. Sherlock, it's perfectly fine to be nervous."

"Is it?"

"We're getting married tomorrow. I am nervous, Sherlock. It's normal."

"Oh. So it's not uncommon? "

"Not in the slightest."

"Fine, then. I'm panicking."

"So am I. Walk together?"

"Yes."

_So where was I? Oh yes. How I feel._

_I'd say: nervous._

_John Watson._

_Nervous isn't a satisfying explanation. I'm burning. I've never experienced this level of fear and panic in my entire life._

_By the way, it's Sherlock here. And yes I'm panicking. _

_Tomorrow I will marry John and John will marry me. I'm happy and I'm panicking. Does happiness generate fear? Because I'm well aware of this at the moment. Very, very well aware. John says it's normal, that he's panicking too, but he seems calm._

_He says he isn't._

_He does seem calm._

_Am I losing my observation skills? Because it looks like that._

"Sherlock, stop it now!"

"Stop what?"

"You're fidgeting!"

"I'm fidgeting because I'm nervous."

"I know you are. I'm nervous too."

"You seem calm."

"I'm not even remotely near the word 'calm'. I could breathe fire right now."

"So could I."

"Come here."

"Why?"

"A hug?"

"Oh. Ok."

_John Watson's hugs. The best in the whole universe when it comes to calming people. And they are private propriety of Sherlock Holmes. I'm slightly calmer now. Tomorrow is the Big Day. And I've never felt so alive. Love you, John._

_Sherlock Holmes._

_Love you too, Sherlock. And always will. _

_John Watson._

_William Sherlock Scott Holmes_

_John Hamish Watson_

_Are proud to announce their Wedding_

_On 22th July_

_St. Mary's Church, St. Mary's Island, Scilly_

_Till Death Do Us Apart._

* * *

**_AN: _**

**And here it is, this is the end!**

**Weirdly this last chapter comes out the same day of my birthday...I hope you enjoyed this journey with me through the whole story and I hope you loved it as much as I loved writing ot down! Thank you all for your support!**


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